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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pastoral Days, by William Hamilton Gibson
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license
+
+
+Title: Pastoral Days
+       or Memories of a New England Year
+
+Author: William Hamilton Gibson
+
+Release Date: November 3, 2012 [EBook #41278]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTORAL DAYS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+PASTORAL DAYS
+
+
+
+
+PASTORAL DAYS
+OR
+MEMORIES OF A NEW ENGLAND YEAR
+
+BY
+
+W. HAMILTON GIBSON
+
+Illustrated
+
+NEW YORK
+
+HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
+
+1881
+
+Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by
+
+HARPER & BROTHERS,
+
+In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
+
+_All rights reserved._
+
+
+TO
+
+ONE WHOSE CLOSE COMPANIONSHIP
+
+HAS WROUGHT THAT HARMONY AND PEACE OF MIND FROM WHICH THIS
+BOOK HAS SPRUNG, AND TO WHOM ITS EVERY PAGE RECALLS
+A REMINISCENCE OF THE PAST IDENTIFIED
+WITH MEMORIES OF MY OWN
+
+This Memoir is Lovingly Inscribed
+
+OUR SOUVENIR
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE CYCLE.
+
+
+SPRING:           PAGE
+
+_The Awakening_.....19
+
+SUMMER:
+
+_The Consummation_.....51
+
+AUTUMN:
+
+_The Waning_.....91
+
+WINTER:
+
+_The Sleep_.....125
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS.
+
+DESIGNED BY W. HAMILTON GIBSON.
+
+
+TITLE.                        ENGRAVER.....PAGE
+
+THE KINDLED FLAME             W. H. CLARK.....18
+
+THE AWAKENING                 H. GRAY.....19
+
+A SPRING MORNING              F. S. KING.....21
+
+CATKINS                       JOHN FILMER.....23
+
+PUSSIES                         ”      ”.....23
+
+EARLY PLOUGHING               H. WOLF.....25
+
+THE RETURN FROM THE FIELDS    GEORGE SMITH.....26
+
+VOICES OF THE NIGHT           JOHN FILMER.....27
+
+A RAINY DAY                   J. HELLAWELL.....29
+
+A HANDFUL FROM THE WOODS      H. GRAY.....32
+
+AFTER ARBUTUS                 J. TINKEY.....34
+
+THE FAIRY FROND               J. P. DAVIS.....35
+
+AN APRIL DAY                  GEORGE SMITH.....36
+
+AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS        SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....37
+
+THE COLUMBINE                 R. HOSKIN.....38
+
+THE MEADOW BROOK              ”     ”.....40
+
+THE PHŒBE’S NEST              W. H. MORSE.....41
+
+BUILDING THE NEST             HENRY MARSH.....42
+
+IN THE APPLE ORCHARD          R. HOSKIN.....43
+
+LITTLE PLUNDERERS             A. HAYMAN.....45
+
+ONE OF NATURE’S MARVELS       H. MARSH.....46
+
+BLUE-FLAGS                    R. HOSKIN.....47
+
+THE CONSUMING FLAME           W. H. CLARK.....50
+
+THE CONSUMMATION              N. ORR.....51
+
+DOLCE FAR NIENTE              F. S. KING.....55
+
+THE OLD GARRET                F. JUENGLING.....56
+
+AMID THE GRASSES              F. S. KING.....58
+
+EVEN-TIDE                     G. KRUELL.....60
+
+THROUGH THE SEDGES            R. HOSKIN.....62
+
+AMONG THE BOGS                J. TINKEY.....63
+
+SOME ART CONNOISSEURS         R. HOSKIN.....64
+
+PROFESSOR WIGGLER             J. FILMER.....65
+
+THE TYRANT OF THE FIELDS      H. E. SCHULTZ.....67
+
+FAMILIAR FACES AT THE
+VILLAGE STORE                 R. A. MULLER.....70
+
+A SOUVENIR                    SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....72
+
+ALONG THE HOUSATONIC          GEORGE SMITH.....74
+
+JUDD’S BRIDGE                 P. ANNIN.....78
+
+THE HAUNTED MILL              J. HELLAWELL.....79
+
+PURSUERS AND PURSUED          GEORGE ANDREW.....81
+
+TOLLING FOR THE DEAD          R. SCHELLING.....83
+
+WRECKS OF THE TORNADO         J. FILMER.....84
+
+PASSING THOUGHTS              H. GRAY.....86
+
+THE SMOULDERING FLAME         ”   ”.....90
+
+THE WANING                    A. HAYMAN.....91
+
+“EVERY BREEZE A SIGH”         F. S. KING.....93
+
+AN OCTOBER DAY                SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....96
+
+A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL           J. HELLAWELL.....97
+
+WAIFS                         HENRY MARSH.....100
+
+IN THE CORNFIELD              W. MILLER.....102
+
+THE ROAD TO THE MILL          E. HELD.....105
+
+THE CIDER-MILL                J. P. DAVIS.....107
+
+THE “LINE STORM”              R. HOSKIN.....109
+
+A POINTED REMINDER            J. FILMER.....111
+
+AFTER THE SHELL-BARKS         GEORGE SMITH.....113
+
+A CORNER OF THE FARM          J. TINKEY.....115
+
+BEECH-NUTTING                 W. H. MORSE.....118
+
+THE NORTH WIND                MORSE and HOSKIN.....120
+
+DESERTED                      HENRY DEIS.....121
+
+THE FLAME EXTINGUISHED        H. GRAY.....124
+
+THE SLEEP                     J. TINKEY.....125
+
+THE TOMB                      J. P. DAVIS.....127
+
+SNOW-FLAKES OF MEMORY         GEORGE SMITH.....129
+
+THE OLD MILL-POND             H. GRAY.....131
+
+THE FIRST SNOW                GEORGE SMITH.....133
+
+MUTE PROPHECIES               H. E. SCHULTZ.....135
+
+THE TWITCH-UP                 F. S. KING.....137
+
+THE WINTER’S DARLING          HENRY MARSH.....139
+
+WHO’S THAT?                   H. WOLF.....140
+
+SUNSHINE AND SHADOW IN THE
+WOODS                         R. HOSKIN.....141
+
+A SUNNY CORNER                W. H. MORSE.....143
+
+WINTER BROWSING               SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....144
+
+A JANUARY THAW                J. FILMER.....145
+
+THE MOONLIGHT RIDE            J. HELLAWELL.....147
+
+THE SHADOWED PAGE             J. TINKEY.....149
+
+THE GOOD PHYSICIAN            R. SCHELLING.....151
+
+THE FULFILMENT                SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....153
+
+
+
+
+SPRING.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: THE AWAKENING]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+As far as the eye can reach, the snow lies in a deep mantle over the
+cheerless landscape. I look out upon a dreary moor, where the horizon
+melts into the cold gray of a heavy sky. The restless wind sweeps with
+pitiless blast through shivering trees and over bleak hills, from whose
+crests, like a great white veil, the clouds of hoary flakes are lifted
+and drawn along by the gale. Down the upland slope, across the
+undulating field, the blinding drift, like a thing of life, speeds in
+its wild caprice, now swirling in fantastic eddies around some isolated
+stack, half hidden in its chill embrace, now winding away over
+bare-blown wall and scraggy fence, and through the sighing willows near
+the frozen stream; now with a wild whirl it flies aloft, and the dark
+pines and hemlocks on the mountain-side fade away in its icy mist.
+Again, yonder it appears trailing along the meadow, until, flying like
+some fugitive spirit chased from earth by the howling wind, it vanishes
+in the sky. On every side these winged phantoms lead their flying chase
+across the dreary landscape, and fence and barn and house upon the hill
+in turn are dimmed or lost to sight.
+
+Who has not watched the strange antics of the drifting snow whirling
+past the window on a blustering winter’s day? But this is not a winter’s
+day. This is the advent of a New England spring.
+
+Fortunate are we that its promises are not fulfilled, for the ides of
+March might as oft betoken the approach of a tempestuous winter as of a
+balmy spring. Consecrated to Mars and Tantalus, it is a month of
+contradictions and disappointments, of broken promises and incessant
+warfare. It is the struggle of tender awakening life against the
+buffetings of rude and blighting elements. No man can tell what a day
+may bring forth. Now we look out verily upon bleak December;
+to-morrow--who knows?--we may be transported into May, and, with
+aspirations high, feel our ardor cooled by a blast of ice and a blinding
+fall of snow. But this cannot always last, for soon the southern breezes
+come and hold their sway for days, and the north wind, angry in its
+defeat, is driven back in lowering clouds to the region of eternal ice
+and snow. Then comes a lovely day, without even a cloud--all blue above,
+all dazzling white below. The sun shines with a glowing warmth, and we
+say unto ourselves, “This is, indeed, a harbinger of spring.” The
+sugar-maples throb and trickle with the flowing sap, and the lumbering
+ox-team and sled wind through the woods from tree to tree to relieve the
+overflowing buckets. The boiling caldron in the sugar-house near by
+receives the continual supply, and gives forth that sweet-scented steam
+that issues from the open door, and comes to us in occasional welcome
+whiffs across the snow. Long “wedges” of wild-geese are seen cleaving
+the sky in their northward flight. The little pussies on the willows
+are coaxed from their winter nest, and creep out upon the stem. The
+solitary bluebird makes his appearance, flitting along the thickets and
+stone walls with little hesitating warble, as if it were not yet the
+appointed time to sing; and down among the bogs, that cautious little
+pioneer, the swamp-cabbage flower, peers above the ground beneath his
+purple-spotted hood. He knows the fickle month which gives him birth,
+and keeps well under cover.
+
+[Illustration: CATKINS.]
+
+[Illustration: PUSSIES.]
+
+Such days in March are too perfect to endure, and at night the sky is
+overcast and dark. Then follows a long warm rain that unlocks the ice in
+all the streams. The whiteness of the hills and meadows melts into broad
+contracting strips and patches. One by one, as mere specks upon the
+landscape, these vanish in turn, until the last vestige of winter is
+washed from the face of the earth to swell the tide of the rushing
+stream. Even now, from the distant valley, we hear a continuous muffled
+roar, as the mighty freshet, impelled by an irresistible force, ploughs
+its tortuous channel through the lowlands and ravines. The quiet town is
+filled with an unusual commotion. Excited groups of towns-people crowd
+the village store, and eager voices tell of the havoc wrought by the
+fearful flood. We hear how the old toll-bridge, with tollman’s house and
+all, was lifted from its piers like a pile of straw, and whirled away
+upon the current. How its floating timbers, in a great blockade, crushed
+into the old mill-pond; how the dam had burst, and the rickety red
+saw-mill gone to pieces down the stream. Farmer Nathan’s barn had gone,
+and his flat meadows were like a whirling sea, strewn with floating
+rails and driftwood. Every hour records its new disaster as some eager
+messenger returns from the excited crowds which line the river-bank. How
+well I remember the fascinating excitement of the spring freshet as I
+watched the rising water in the big swamp lot, anxious lest it might
+creep up and undermine the wall foundations of the barn! And what a
+royal raft I made from the drifting logs and beams, and with the spirit
+of an adventurous explorer sailed out on the deep gliding current,
+floating high among the branches of the half submerged willow-trees, and
+scraping over the tips of the tallest alder-bushes, whose highest twigs
+now hardly reached the surface! How deep and dark the water looked as I
+lay upon the raft and peered into the depths below! But this jolly fun
+was of but short duration. The flood soon subsided, and on the following
+morning nothing was seen excepting the settlings of _débris_ strewn
+helter-skelter over the meadow, and hanging on all the bushes.
+
+The tepid rain has penetrated deep into the yielding ground, and with
+the winter’s frost now coming to the surface, the roads are well-nigh
+impassable with their plethora of mud. For a full appreciation of _mud_
+in all its glory, and in its superlative degree, one should see a New
+England highway “when the frost comes out of the ground.” The roads are
+furrowed with deep grimy ruts, in which the bedabbled wheels sink to
+their hubs as in a quicksand, and the hoofs of the floundering horse are
+held in the swampy depths as if in a vise. For a week or more this state
+of things continues, until at length, after warm winds and sunny days,
+the ground once more packs firm beneath the tread. This marks the close
+of idle days. The junk pile in the barn is invaded, and the rusty plough
+abstracted from the midst of rakes and scythes and other farming tools.
+The old white horse thrusts his long head from the stall near by, and
+whinnies at the memories it revives, and with pricked-up ears and
+whisking tail tells plainly of the eagerness he feels.
+
+[Illustration: EARLY PLOUGHING.]
+
+Back and forth through the sloping lot the ploughman slowly turns the
+dingy sward, and in the rich brown furrow, following in his track, we
+see the cackling troop of hens, and the lordly rooster, with great ado,
+searches out the dainty tidbits for his motley crowd of favorites. The
+whole landscape has become infused with human life and motion. Wherever
+the eye may turn it sees the evidences of varied and hopeful industry.
+Yonder we notice an oft-recurring little puff of mist, like a burlesque
+snow-drift, ever and anon bursting into view, and softly vanishing
+against the sward; another glance detects the slow progress of horse and
+cart, as the farmer sows his load of plaster across the whitening field.
+Farther up, where the brow of the hill stands clear against the sky, a
+pacing figure, with measured sweep of arm, scatters the handfuls of
+wheat, and team and harrow soon are in his path, combing and crumbling
+the dark-brown mould. High curling wreaths of smoke wind upward from the
+flat swamp lot beyond, where hilarious boys enjoy both work and play in
+burning off the brush. Here we shall see the first welcome nibble of
+fresh grass for the poor bereaved cow, whose lamenting bleat now echoes
+through the barn near by; and for those oxen, too, that with swaying,
+clumsy gait lug the huge roller across the neighboring field. And what
+strange yells and exclamations guide them in their labored progress! “Ho
+back! Gee up, ahoy! Ho haw!” From every direction, in voices near, and
+others faint with distance, we hear this same queer jargon. Who could
+believe that so much good work hung upon the incessant reiteration of
+that brief and monotonous vocabulary? Rather would we listen to the
+musical ring of the laughing children riding on the big “brush harrow”
+down through that barn-yard lane beyond. Now they are out upon the
+broken ground where John has strewn the “compost” to be “brushed in.” A
+broad flat wake follows them around the field, and that same troop of
+hens and turkeys revel in the lively feast spread out before them in the
+loose upturning.
+
+[Illustration: RETURN FROM THE FIELDS.]
+
+[Illustration: VOICES OF THE NIGHT.]
+
+So runs the record of a busy day in the early New England springtime,
+and with its all-absorbing industry it is a day that passes quickly. The
+afternoon runs into evening. Cool shadows creep across the landscape as
+the glowing sun sinks through the still bare and leafless trees and
+disappears behind the wooded hills. The fields are now deserted, and
+through the uncertain twilight we see the little knots of workmen with
+their swinging pails, and hear their tramp along the homeward road. In
+the dim shadows of the evergreens beyond, a faint gray object steals
+into view. Now it stops at the old watering-trough, and I hear the sip
+of the eager horse and the splash of overflowing water. Some belated
+ploughman, fresh, perhaps, from a half-hour’s gossip at the village
+store. I hear the sound of hoofs upon the stones as they renew their
+way, the dragging of the chain upon the gravelly bed, and the receding
+form is lost in the darkening road. One by one the scattered barns and
+houses have disappeared in the gathering dusk, marked only by the faint
+columns of blue smoke that rise above the trees, and melt away against
+the twilight sky. I look out upon a wilderness of gloom, where all above
+is still and clear, and all below is wrapped in impenetrable mystery. A
+plaintive piping trill now breaks the impressive stillness. Again and
+again I hear the little lonely voice vibrating through the low-lying
+mist. It is only a little frog in some far-off marsh; but what a sweet
+sense of sadness is awakened by that lowly melody! How its weird minor
+key, with its magic touch, unlocks the treasures of the heart. Only the
+peeping of a frog; but where in all the varied voices of the night,
+where, even among the great chorus of nature’s sweetest music, is there
+another song so lulling in its dreamy melody, so full of that emotive
+charm which quickens the human heart? How often in the vague spring
+twilight have I yielded to the strange, fascinating melancholy awakened
+by the frog’s low murmur at the water’s edge! How many times have I
+lingered near some swampy roadside bog, and let these little wizards
+weave their mystic spell about my willing senses, while the very air
+seemed to quiver in the fulness of their song! I remember the tangle of
+tall and withered rushes, through whose mysterious depths the eye in
+vain would strive to penetrate at the sound of some faint splash or
+ripple, or perhaps at the quaint, high-keyed note of some little
+isolated hermit, piping in his sombre solitude. I recall the first
+glimpse of the rising moon, as its great golden face peered out at me
+from over the distant hill, enclosing half the summit against its broad
+and luminous surface. Slowly and steadily it seemed to steal into view,
+until, risen in all its fulness, I caught its image in the trembling
+ripples at the edge of the soggy pool, where the palpitating water
+responded to the frog’s low, tremulous monotone. Higher and higher it
+sails across the inky sky, its glow now changed to a silvery pallor,
+across whose white halo, in a floating film, the ghostly clouds glide in
+their silent flight. A dull tinkling of some distant cow-bell breaks
+the spell, and recalls my wandering thoughts, and as I again take up my
+way along the moonlit road, the glimmering windows on right and left
+betray the hiding-places of a score of humble homes. Not far beyond I
+see the swinging motion of a flickering lantern, as some tardy farmer’s
+boy, whistling about his work, clears up his nightly chores. Now he
+enters the old barn-door. I see the light glinting through the open
+cracks, and hear the lowing of the cows, the bleating of the baby-calf,
+and rattling chains of oxen in the stanchion rows. Now again I catch the
+gleam at the open door; the swinging light flits across the yard, and
+the old corn-crib starts from its obscurity. I see the boyish figure
+relieved against the glow within as a basketful of yellow ears are
+gathered for the impatient mouths in the noisy manger stalls. Sing on,
+my boy, enjoy it while you may! That venerable barn will yield a
+fragrance to you in after-life that will conjure up in your heart a
+throng of memories as countless as the shining grains that glimmer in
+the light you hold, and as golden, too, as they. I wonder if those
+soft-winged bats squeak among the clapboards, or make their fluttering
+zigzag swoops about your lantern as they were wont to do in olden times.
+
+Then there was that big-eyed owl, too, that perched upon the maple-tree
+outside my window, and cried as if its heart would break at the doleful
+tidings it foretold. What a world of kind solicitude that dolorous bird
+awakened in our superstitious neighbor across the road! How she
+overwhelmed us with her sympathy, aroused by that sepulchral omen! But I
+still live, and so does the owl, for aught I know; and I sometimes think
+that this aged, stooping dame over the way has never fully recovered
+from her disappointment, for she always greets me with a sigh and an
+injured expression, as she says, in her high and tremulous voice, “Well!
+well! back agin ez hale ’n hearty ’s ever; an’ arter the way thet ar
+witch bird yewst teu call ye, too, night arter night. Jest teu _think_
+on’t! an’ we’d all a’ gi’n ye up fer sartin. Well! well! I never see the
+beat on’t. Yen deu seem teu hang on _paowerful_;” and, after a moment’s
+hesitation, seemingly in which to swallow the bitter pill, she usually
+adds, with sad solicitude, “Feelin’ perty _tol’ble teu_, I spose?” But
+the “witch bird” never roused my serious apprehensions. I remember its
+plaintive cry only as a tender bit of pathos in the pages of my early
+history.
+
+[Illustration: A RAINY DAY.]
+
+I recall, too, the pleasant sound upon the shingles overhead as the
+dark-clouded sky let fall its tell-tale drops to warn us of the coming
+rain. How many times have I glided into dream-land under the drowsy
+influence of the patter on the roof, and the ever varying tattoo upon
+the tin beneath the dripping eaves! Who can forget those rainy days,
+with their games of hide-and-seek in the old dark garret! How we looked
+out upon the muddy puddled road, and laughed at the great drifting
+sheets of water that ever and anon poured down from some bursting cloud,
+and roared upon the roof! And as the driving rain beat against the
+blurred window-panes, what strange capers the squirming tree-trunks
+outside seemed to play for our amusement: the dark door-way of the barn,
+too--now swelling out to twice its size, now stretching long and thin,
+or dividing in the middle in its queer contortions. Out in the dismal
+barn-yard we saw the forlorn row of hens huddled together on the
+hay-rick, under the drizzling straw-thatched shed; and the gabled coop
+near by, in whose dry retreat the motherly old hen spread her tawny
+wings, and yielded the warmth of her ruffled breast to the tender needs
+of her little family, peeping so contentedly beneath her. The rain-proof
+ducks dabble in the neighboring puddles, and chew the muddy water in
+search of floating dainties, or gulp with nodding heads the unlucky
+angle-worms which come struggling to the surface--drowned out of their
+subterranean tunnels.
+
+Now we hear the snapping of the latch at the foot of the garret stairs,
+and we are called to come and see a little outcast that John has brought
+in from the wood-pile. Close beside the kitchen-stove a doubled piece of
+blanket lies upon the floor, and within its folds we find what once was
+a downy little chicken, now drenched and dying from exposure. He was a
+naughty, wayward child, and would persist in thinking that he knew more
+than his mother. At least so I was told--indeed, it was impressed upon
+me. But the little fellow was rescued just in time. The warmth will soon
+revive him, and by-and-by we shall hear his little chirp and see him
+trot around the kitchen-floor, pecking at that everlasting fly, perhaps,
+or at some tiny red-hot coal that snaps out from the stove.
+
+Little did we suspect the mission of those rainy days, so drear and
+dismal without, or the sweet surprise preparing for us in the myriad
+mysteries of life beneath the sod, where every root and thread-like
+rootlet in the thirsty earth was drinking in that welcome moisture, and
+numberless sleeping germs, dwelling in darkness, were awakening into
+life to seek the light of day, waiting only for the glory of a sunny
+dawn to burst forth from their hiding-places! That sunny morn does come
+at last, and in its beams it sheds abroad a power that stirs the deepest
+root. It is, indeed, a glorious day. The clustered buds upon the
+silver-maples burst in their exuberance, and fringe the graceful
+branches with their silken tassels. The restless crocus, for months an
+unwilling captive in its winter prison, can contain itself no longer,
+and with its little overflowing cup lifts up its face to the blue
+heaven. Golden daffodils burst into bloom on drooping stems, and
+exchange their little nods on right and left. The air is filled with a
+faint perfume, in which the very earth mould yields its fragrance--that
+wild aroma only known to spring. Our little feathered friends, so few
+and far between as yet, are full of song. The bluebird wooes his mate
+with a loving warble, full of tender sweetness, as they flit among the
+swaying twigs, or pry with diligent search for some snug nesting-place
+among the hollow crannies of the orchard trees. The noisy blackbirds
+hold high carnival in the top of the old pine-tree, the woodpecker taps
+upon the hollow limb his resonant tattoo, and the hungry crows, like a
+posse of tramps, hang around the great oak-tree upon the knoll, and
+watch to see what they can steal. Down through the meadow the gurgling
+stream babbles as of old, and along its fretted banks the alder thickets
+are hanging full with drooping catkins swinging at every breeze. The
+glossy willow-buds throw off their coat of fur, and plume themselves in
+their wealth of inflorescence, lighting up the brook-side with a yellow
+glow, and exhaling a fresh, delicious perfume. Here, too, we hear the
+rattling screech of the swooping kingfisher, as with quick beats of wing
+he skims along the surface of the stream, and with an ascending glide
+settles upon the overhanging branch above the ripples. All these and a
+thousand more I vividly recall from the memory of that New England
+spring; but sweetest of all its manifold surprises was that crowning
+consummation, that miracle of a single night, bringing on countless
+wings through the early morning mist the welcome chorus of the returning
+flocks of birds. How they swarmed the orchard and the elms, where but
+yesterday the bluebird held his sway! Now we see the fiery oriole in his
+gold and jetty velvet flashing in the morning sun, and robins without
+number swell their ruddy throats in a continuous roundelay of song. The
+pert cat-bird in his Quaker garb is here, and with flippant jerk of tail
+and impertinent mew bustles about among the arbor-vitæs, where even now
+are remnants of his last year’s nest. The puffy wrens, too, what saucy,
+sputtering little bursts of glee are theirs as they strut upon the
+rustic boxes in the maples! The fields are vocal with their sweet spring
+medley, in which the happy carols of the linnets and the song sparrows
+form a continuous pastoral. Now we hear the mellow bell of the wood
+thrush echoing from some neighboring tree, and all intermingled with the
+chatter and the gossip of the martens on their lofty house. Birds in the
+sky, birds in the trees and on the ground, birds everywhere, and not a
+silent throat among them; but from far and near, from mountain-side and
+meadow, from earth and sky, uniting in a happy choral of perpetual
+jubilee.
+
+[Illustration: A HANDFUL FROM THE WOODS.]
+
+Down in the moist green swamp lot the yellow cowslips bloom along the
+shallow ditch, and the eager farmer’s wife fills her basket with the
+succulent leaves she has been watching for so long; for they’ll tell you
+in New England that “they ain’t noth’n’ like caowslips for a mess o’
+greens.” Near by we see the frog pond, with lush growth of arrow leaves
+and pickerel weed, and flat blades of blue-flag just starting from the
+boggy earth. Half submerged upon a lily pad, close by the water’s edge,
+an ugly toad sits watching for some winged morsel for that ample mouth
+of his.
+
+Who could believe that so much poetic inspiration could emerge from such
+a mouth as that; for verily it is this miserable-looking toad that lifts
+his little voice in the dreamy, drowsy chorus of the twilight. All sorts
+of odium have been heaped upon the innocent toad; but he only returns
+good for evil. He is the farmer’s faithful friend. He guards his garden
+by day, and lulls him to sleep by night. Yonder, near those withered
+cat-tails, we see the village boys among the calamus-beds, pulling up
+the long white roots tipped with pink and fringed with trickling
+rootlets. What visions of candied flag-root stimulate them in their
+zeal! I can almost see the tender, juicy leaf-bud screened beneath that
+smooth pink sheath, and its aromatic pungency is as fresh and real to me
+as this appetizing fragrance that comes to us from the green tufts of
+spearmint we crush beneath our feet at every step. Bevies of swallows
+all around us skim through the air, like feathered darts, in their
+twittering flight; and the restless starling, like a field-marshal, with
+his scarlet epaulets, keeps sharp lookout for the enemy, and “flutes his
+O-ka-lee” from the high alder-bush at the slightest approach upon his
+chosen ground. Yonder on the wooded slope the feathery shad-tree blooms,
+like a suspended cloud of drifting snow lingering among the gray twigs
+and branches; and chasing across the matted leaves beneath, a lively
+troop of youngsters, girls and boys, make the woods resound with their
+boisterous jubilee. A jolly band of fugitives fresh from the stormy
+week’s captivity--spring buds bursting with life, with a pent-up store
+of spirits that finds escape in an effervescence of ringing laughs and
+in a din of incessant jabber. Well I know the buoyant exhilaration that
+impels them on in their reckless frolic, as they skip from stone to
+stone across the rippling stream, or “stump” each other on the
+treacherous crossing-pole which spans the deep still current! Now I see
+them huddle around the trickling grotto among the mossy bowlders in the
+steep gully yonder, where the mountain spring bubbles into a crystal
+pool. Alas! how quickly its faint blue border of hepaticas is rifled by
+the ruthless mob! Now they clamber up the great gray rocks beneath the
+drooping hemlocks, stopping in their headlong zeal to snatch some
+trembling cluster of anemone, nodding from its velvety bed of moss; now
+plunging down on hands and knees, shedding innocent blood among an
+unsuspecting colony of fragile bloom--those glowing blossoms so welcome
+in the early spring! Who does not know the bloodroot--that shy recluse
+hiding away among the mountain nooks, that emblem of chaste purity with
+its bridal ring of purest gold? Who has not seen its tender leaf-wrapped
+buds lifting the matted leaves, and spreading their galaxy of snowy
+stars along the woodland path?
+
+Then there was the shy arbutus, too. Where in all the world’s bouquet is
+there another such a darling of a flower? And where in all New England
+does that darling show so full and sweet a face as in its home upon that
+sunny slope I have in mind, and know so well? Was ever such a fragrant
+tufted carpet spread beneath a hesitating foot? Even now, along the
+lichen-dappled wall upon the summit, I see the lingering strip of snow,
+gritty and speckled, and at its very edge, hiding beneath the covering
+leaves, those modest little faces looking out at me--faces which seemed
+to blush a deeper pink at their rude discovery. No other flower can
+breathe the perfume of the arbutus, that earthy, spicy fragrance, which
+seems as though distilled from the very leaf-mould at its roots. Often
+on this sunny slope, so sheltered by dense pines and hemlocks, have
+these charming clusters, pink and white, burst into bloom beneath the
+snow in March; and even on a certain late February day, we discovered a
+little, solitary clump, fully spread, and fairly ruddy with the cold.
+Here, too, we found the earliest sprays of the slender maidenhair; that
+fairy frond and loveliest among ferns, with black and lustrous stems,
+and graceful spread of tender gauzy green.
+
+[Illustration: AFTER ARBUTUS.]
+
+Where was the nook in all that hill-side woods that we left unsearched
+in our April ramblings? I recall the “tat,” “tat” upon the dry carpet of
+beech leaves, as the delicate anemone in my hand is dashed by a falling
+drop! Lost in eager occupation, we had not observed the shadow that had
+stolen through the forest; and now, as we look out through the trees, we
+see the steel-blue warning of the coming shower, and feel the first gust
+of the tell-tale breeze--how the willows wave and gleam against the deep
+gray clouds, so weirdly reflected in the gliding stream beneath, like an
+open seam to another sky! See the silvery flashes of that flock of
+pigeons circling against the lurid background. No, we cannot stop to
+see them, for the rain-drops begin to patter thick and fast. Away we
+scamper to the shelter of the overhanging rocks. The lowering sky rolls
+above us through the branches. The glassy surface of the brook takes on
+a leaden hue as the rain-cloud drags its misty veil across the distant
+meadows. The brown leaves jump and spatter at my feet, and the blue
+liverwort flowers on right and left duck their heads like little living
+things dodging the pelting rain-drops.
+
+[Illustration: THE FAIRY FROND.]
+
+Oh, the lovely fickleness an April day! Even now the distant hill is lit
+up by the bursting sun. Nearer and nearer the gleam creeps across the
+landscape, chasing the shower away, and in a moment more the meadows
+glow with a freshened green, and the trees stand transfigured in
+glistening beads flashing in the sunbeams. The quickened earth gives
+forth its grateful incense, and even an enthusiastic frog down in the
+lily-pond sends up his little vote of thanks.
+
+[Illustration: AN APRIL DAY.]
+
+April’s woods are teeming with all forms of life, if one will only look
+for them. On every side the ferns, curled up all winter in their dormant
+sleep, unroll their spiral sprays, and reach out for the welcome sun.
+The spicy colt’s-foot, or wild ginger, lifts its downy leaves among the
+mossy rocks and crevices, and its homely flower just peeps above the
+ground, and, with a lingering glance at the blushing _Rue anemone_ close
+by, hangs its humble head, never to look up again. High above us the
+eccentric cottonwood-tree dangles its long speckled plumes, so silvery
+white. Now we hear a mellow drumming sound, as some unsuspecting grouse,
+concealed among the undergrowth near by, beats his resonant breast.
+Could we but get a glimpse of him, we would see him simulate the
+barn-yard gobbler, as with proud strut and spreading tail he disports
+himself upon some fallen log or mossy rock. Perhaps, too, that coy mate
+is near, admiring his show of gallantry, and holding a sly flirtation.
+
+[Illustration: AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS.]
+
+Look at this craggy precipice of rock, lost above among the
+green-tasselled evergreens, and trickling with crystal drops from every
+drooping sprig of moss. How its rugged surface is painted with the
+mottled lichens of every hue, here like a faint tinge of cool
+sage-green, and there in large brown blotches of rich color! See the
+fringe of ferns that bursts from the fissure across its surface. There
+the trillium hangs its three-cleft flower of rich maroon; and later we
+shall see the fern-like spray of Solomon’s-seal swinging its little row
+of straw-colored bells from the ledge above. Airy columbines, too, shall
+float their scarlet pendants on fragile stems, and with their graceful
+nod tell of the slightest breeze, when all else is still. What is that
+cinnamon-brown bird that hops along the stone wall yonder? Now he
+alights upon the tulip-tree, and swells his speckled breast in a series
+of short experiments--a broken song, in which every note or call has
+its twin echo. A “mocking-thrush” he is, indeed, for he mimics his own
+song from morn till night in all the thickets and pasture-lands. Take
+care there! why, you almost trod upon that feathery tuft of “Dutchman’s
+breeches.” Oh, who is he that dared to clothe this sweet blossom in such
+an ignominious title? Where is the Dutchman that ever wore
+unmentionables of such exquisite pink satin as that pale _dicentra_
+wears? No wonder their little broken hearts droop at the insult!
+
+[Illustration: THE COLUMBINE.]
+
+The grotesque Jack-in-the-pulpit, rising above that crumbling log, is
+named more to my mind. There he stands beneath his striped canopy, and
+preaches to me a sermon on the well-remembered rashness of my youth in
+trifling with that subterranean bulb from which he grows. But I ignored
+his warning in those early days. I only knew that a real nice boy across
+the way seemed very fond of those little Indian turnips, called them
+“sugar-roots,” and said that they were full of honey. And as he bit off
+his eager mouthful, and refused to let me taste, I sought one for
+myself, and, generous boy that he was, he showed me where to find the
+buried treasure. It was like a small turnip, an innocent-looking affair
+(and so was the nice boy’s modelled piece of apple, by-the-way). But oh!
+the sudden revelation of the red-hot reservoir of chain-lightning that
+crammed that innocent bulb! Even as I think of it, how I long once more
+to interview that real nice boy who opened up the mysteries of the
+“sugar-root” to my tempted curiosity. Let boys beware of this wild,
+red-hot coal; and should they be impelled by a desire to test the
+unknown flavor, let them solace themselves with a less dangerous mixture
+of four papers of cambric needles and a spoonful of pounded glass. This
+will give a faint suggestion of the racy pungency of the Indian turnip.
+Were some kind friend at the present day to seek to kill me off with
+poisoned food, I should forthwith have him arrested on a charge of
+attempted murder, and incarcerated in the county jail. But what would be
+wilful homicide in the man is only a guileless proof of friendship in
+the boy, and his affections and their symptoms present a living paradox;
+and those boisterous days, with all their fond caresses in the way of
+fights and bruises and black eyes, and even Indian turnips, we all agree
+were full of fun the like of which we never shall see again.
+
+[Illustration: MEADOW BROOK.]
+
+How well we remember those tramps along the meadow brook: the dark,
+still holes beneath the overhanging rocks, where, with golden slipping
+loop and pole and cautious creep, we wired those lazy, unsuspecting
+“suckers” on the gravelly bed below! Ah! what scientific angling with
+the rod and reel in later years has ever brought back the keen tingle of
+that primitive sport? The great green bull-frogs, too, in the lily-pond,
+disclosing their cavernous resources as they jumped and splashed and
+sprawled after the tantalizing bit of red flannel on that dangling hook!
+We recall that rickety bridge among the willows, and the mossy nest of
+mud so firmly fixed upon the beam beneath. How could we be so deaf to
+the pleading of those little phoebe-birds that fluttered so beseechingly
+about us? Then there was that deep hole in the sand-bank near the
+brook, where the burrowing kingfisher hid away his nest, where we
+watched in the twilight to see him enter, and, with big round stone in
+readiness, “plugged” him in his den! What fun it was to dig him out, and
+ventilate his musty nest of fish-bones! The starling in the thicket of
+the swamp circled through the air with angry “Quit! quit!” as we picked
+our way through the bristling bogs so close upon her nest. We’ll not
+forget that false step that sent us sprawling in the green slimy mud, at
+the first electrifying glimpse of those brown spotted eggs. The
+high-holer, too, whose golden gleam of wing upon the bare dead tree
+betrayed his nesting-place in the hollow limb--was ever such a stimulus
+offered to the eagerness of youth? Who would give a second thought to
+his tender shins at the prospect of such a prize as a nest of
+high-hole’s eggs? How round and white they were! how the pale golden
+yolk floated beneath the pearly shell! Those were jolly days for us; but
+the poor birds had to suffer, and few, indeed, were the nests that
+escaped our prying search. There was the cat-bird in the evergreens,
+with lovely eggs of peacock blue; the pure white treasures of the
+swallows in the mud nests under the barn-yard eaves; the sky-blue
+beauties of the robin; the brown speckled eggs in the sheltered nest of
+song-sparrows on the grassy slope; the dear little eggs of chippies in
+their horse-hair bed, and in their midst the insinuated specimen of the
+cheeky cow-blackbird: there were eggs of every shape and hue, and we
+knew too well where to put our hand on them.
+
+[Illustration: THE PHŒBE’S NEST.]
+
+[Illustration: BUILDING THE NEST.]
+
+In a flowering hawthorn outside our window we watched a loving pair
+building their pensile nest among the thorns and blossoms. How incessant
+was their solicitude for that fragile framework until its strength was
+fully assured against the tossing breeze! Tenderly and eagerly they
+helped each other in the disposition of those ravellings of string and
+strips of bark! he stopping every now and then to whisper sweetly to his
+mate, as she, with drooping, trembling wings, put up her little open
+bill to kiss. Yes, we often saw this little tender episode, as we
+watched them through the shutters of the half-closed blinds! Now he
+flies away; and the little spouse, thus left alone, jumps into the nest,
+and we see its mossy meshes swell as she fits the deep hollow to her
+feathery breast. Presently her consort returns, trailing along a
+gossamer of cobweb, which he throws around the supporting thorn, and
+leaves for her to spread and tuck among the crevices. Again he appears,
+with his tiny bill concealed in a silvery puff of cotton from the willow
+catkins in the swamp; next he brings a wisp of long gray moss; now a
+curly flake of rich brown lichen, or a jagged square of birch bark, all
+of which are laid against the nest, and half covered with films of
+cobweb. Once more we see his tiny form among the hawthorn blossoms as he
+tugs a papery piece of hornets’ nest through the pink barricade. This is
+arranged to hang beneath as a pendant to their floating fabric, and the
+happy little couple sit together upon a neighboring twig in twittering
+admiration. And well they may, for a prettier nest than theirs never
+hung upon a thorn. Not perfect yet, it seems, however, for that little
+feminine eye has seen the need of one more touch. Away she flies, and in
+a minute more a downy feather, tipped with iridescent green, is adjusted
+in the cobwebs.
+
+[Illustration: IN THE APPLE ORCHARD.]
+
+This dainty little work of art is only one of the thousands that
+everywhere are building in the blooming trees and thickets. These are
+the supreme moments of the spring, consecrated to the loves of bird and
+blossom. Every little winged form that scarcely bends the twig has its
+all-consuming passion, and every tree its wedding of the flower. Out in
+the orchard the apple-trees are laden in veritable domes of pink-white
+bloom, as if by the rare spectacle of a rosy fall of snow, and from
+among the dewy petals the army of bees give forth their low, continuous
+drone--that sympathetic chord in the universal harmony of spring. How
+they revel in that rich harvest! Who knows what sweet messages are borne
+from flower to flower upon those filmy wings?
+
+On the green slope beneath, the scattered dandelions gleam like drops of
+molten gold upon the velvety sward, and a lounging family group, intent
+upon that savory noonday relish, gather the basketfuls of the dainty
+plants for that appetizing “mess of greens.” Often, while thus engaged,
+have I stopped to watch the antics of the festive bumblebee, tumbling
+around in the tufted blossom--always an amusing sight. See how he rolls
+and wallows in the golden fringe, even standing on his head and kicking
+in his glee! Presently, with his long black nose thrust deep into the
+yellow puff, he stops to enjoy a quiet snooze in the luxurious bed--an
+endless sleep, for I generally took this chance to put him out of his
+misery, preferring, perhaps, to watch the robin hopping across the lawn.
+Now he stops, and seems to listen; runs a yard or so, and listens again,
+and without a sign of warning dips his head, and pulls upon an unlucky
+angle-worm that much prefers to go the other way. It is a well-known
+fact that angle-worms approach the surface of their burrows at the sound
+of rain-drops on the earth above. I sometimes wonder if the robin in its
+quick running stroke of foot intends to simulate that sound, and thus
+decoy its prey.
+
+I remember the wild tumult of a troop of boys upon the hill-side,
+tracking the swarming bees as they whirled along in a living tangle
+against the sky, now loosening in their dizzy meshes, now contracting in
+a murmuring hum around their queen, and finally settling on a branch in
+a pendent bunch about her. So tame and docile, too! seeming utterly to
+forget their fiery javelins as they hung in that brown filmy mass upon
+the bending bough! “A swarm of bees in May iz wuth a load o’ hay.” So
+said our neighbor, as with fresh clean hive he secured that prized
+equivalent. Here they are soon at home again, and we see their steady
+winged stream pouring out through the little door of their
+treasure-house, and the continual arrival of the little dusty
+plunderers, laden with their smuggled store of honey, and their
+saddle-bags replete with stolen gold. Down near the brook they find a
+land of plenty, literally flowing with honey, as the luxuriant drooping
+clusters of the locust-trees yield their brimful nectaries to the
+impetuous, murmuring swarm. But there is no lack now of flowery sweets
+for this buzzing colony. On every hand the meadow-sweets and milkweeds,
+the brambles, and the fragrant creeping-clover show their alluring
+colors in the universal burst of bloom, and not one escapes its tender
+pillaging.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Up in the woods the gray has turned to tender green. The flowering
+dog-wood has spread its layers of creamy blossoms, giving the signal for
+the planting of the corn, and in the furrowed field we see that
+dislocated “man of straw,” with old plug hat jammed down upon his face,
+with wooden backbone sticking through his neck-band, and dirty thatch
+for a shirt bosom--a mocking outrage on any crow’s sagacity. Those
+glittering strips of tin, too! Could you but interpret the low croaking
+of the leader of that sable gang in yonder tree, you might hear of the
+appalling effect of these precautions. I heard him once as I sat quietly
+beneath a forest tree, and in the light of later events I readily
+recalled his remarks upon the occasion: “Say, fellers! look at that old
+fool down there hanging out those tins to show us where his corn is
+planted. Haw! haw! I swaw! cawn! cawn! we’ll go down thaw and take a
+chaw!” And they did; and they perched upon that old plug hat, and looked
+around for something to get scared about. A single look at a crow shows
+that he has a long head, and it is not all mouth either.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: BLUE-FLAGS.]
+
+Every day now makes a transformation in the landscape. The golden stars
+upon the lawn are nearly all burnt out: we see their downy ashes in the
+grass. Their virgin flame is quenched, and naught remains but those
+ethereal globes of smoke that rise up and float away with every breeze.
+Where is there in all nature’s marvels a more exquisite creation than
+this evanescent phœnix of the dandelion? Beautiful in life, it is
+even more beautiful in death. And now the high-grown grass is cloudy
+with its puffs, whose little fairy parachutes are sailing everywhere,
+over mountain-top and field. Here the corn has appeared in little waving
+plumes, and the horse and cultivator are seen breaking up the soil
+between the rows. Great snowy piles of cloud throw their gliding shadows
+across the patchwork of ploughed fields and meadows, fresh and green
+with winter wheat, or tinged with newly sprouting grain. The sunbeams
+glow with a summer warmth, and the evaporation of the morning dews lifts
+the glistening diamonds from the gossamer films among the grass, and
+sends a quivering haze all through the air, in which the distant trees
+tremble in a softened glimmer. The woods are screened in dense foliage,
+and through the leafy canopy the merry birds dart and sing.
+
+The chickadees are here, and scarlet tanagers gleam like living bits of
+fire among the tantalizing leaves. Pert little vireos hop inquisitively
+about you, and the bell note of the wood-thrush echoes from the hidden
+tree-top overhead. Perhaps, too, you may chance upon a downy brood of
+quail cuddling among the dry leaves; but, even though you should, you
+might pass them by unnoticed, except as a mildewed spot of fungus at the
+edge of a fallen log or tree-stump, perhaps. The loamy ground is shaded
+knee-deep with rank growth of wood plants. The mossy, speckled rock is
+set in a fringe of ferns. Palmate sprays of ginseng spread in mid-air a
+luxurious carpet of intermingled leaves, interspersed with yellow spikes
+of loosestrife and pale lilac blooms of crane’s-bill; and the
+poison-ivy, creeping like a snake around that marbled beech, has
+screened its hairy trunk beneath its three-cleft shiny leaves. The
+mountain-laurel, with its deep green foliage and showy clusters, peers
+above that rocky crag; and in the bog near by a thicket of wild azalea
+is crowned with a profusion of pink blossoms.
+
+Out in the swamp meadow the tall clumps of boneset show their dull white
+crests, and the blue flowers of the flag, the mint, and pickerel weed
+deck the borders of the lily pond. The waddling geese let off their
+shrieking calliopes as they sail out into the stream, or browse with
+nodding twitch along the grassy bank. Swarms of yellow butterflies
+disgrace their kind as they huddle around the greenish mud-holes, and we
+hear on every side the “z-zip, z-zip,” amidst the din of a thousand
+crickets and singing locusts among the reeds and rushes. The meadows
+roll and swell in billowy waves, bearing like a white-speckled foam upon
+their crests a sea of daisies, with here and there a floating patch of
+crimson clover, or a golden haze of butter-cups. Rising suddenly from
+the tall grass near by, the gushing brimful bobolink crowds a
+half-hour’s song into a brief pell-mell rapture, beating time in mid-air
+with his trembling wings, and alighting on the tall fence-rail to regain
+his breath. A coy meadow-lark shows his yellow-breast and crescent above
+the windrow yonder, and we hear the ringing beats of whetted scythes,
+and see the mowers cut their circling swath.
+
+Mowing! Why, how is this? This surely is not Spring. But even thus the
+Springtime leads us into Summer. No eye can mark the soft transition,
+and ere we are aware the sweet fragrance of the new-mown hay breathes
+its perfumed whisper, “Behold, the Spring has fled!”
+
+
+
+
+SUMMER.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: THE CONSUMMATION]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+“All out for Hometown.” There is an epidemic of eagerness, a general
+bustle for satchels and bundles, and the car is soon almost without a
+passenger; and, indeed, it would really seem as though the whole train
+had landed its entire human burden upon this platform; for Hometown is a
+popular place, and every Saturday evening brings just such an exodus as
+this: Husbands and fathers who fly from the hot and crowded city for a
+Sunday of quiet and content with their families, who year after year
+have found a refuge of peace and comfort in this charming New England
+town. Where is it? Talk with almost any one familiar with the
+picturesque boroughs of the Housatonic, and your curiosity will be
+gratified, for this village will be among the first to be described.
+
+From the platform of the car we step into the midst of a motley
+assemblage, rustic peasantry and fashionable aristocracy intermingled.
+Anxious and eager faces meet you at every turn. For a few minutes the
+air fairly rings with kisses, as children welcome fathers, and fathers
+children. Strange vehicles crowd the depot--vehicles of all sizes and
+descriptions, from the veritable “one-hoss shay” to the dainty
+basket-phaeton of fashion. One by one the merry loads depart, while I, a
+pilgrim to my old home, stand almost unrecognized by the familiar faces
+around me. Leaning up against the porch near by, stands a character
+which, once seen, could never be forgotten. His face is turned from me,
+but the old straw hat I recognize as the hat of ten years ago, with brim
+pulled down to a slope in front, and pushed up vertically behind, and
+the identical hole in the side with the long hair sticking through. Yes,
+there he stands--Amos Shoopegg. I step up to him and lay my hand upon
+his shoulder. With creditable skill he unwinds the twist of his
+intricate legs, and with an inquiring gaze turns his good-natured face
+toward me.
+
+“Is it possible that you don’t remember me, Shoop?”
+
+With an expression of surprise he raises both his arms. “Wa’al, thar! I
+swaiou! I didn’t cal’late on runnin’ agin yeu. I was jes drivin’ hum
+from taown-meetin’, an’ thought as haow I’d take a turn in, jest out o’
+cur’osity. Wa’al, naow, it’s pesky good to see yeu agin arter sech a
+long spell. I didn’t re_cog_nize ye at fust, but I swan when ye began
+a-talkin’, that was enuf fer me. Hello! fetched yer woman ’long tew,
+hey? Haow air yeu, ma’am? hope ye’er perty tol’ble. Don’t see but what
+yeu look’s nateral’s ever; but yer man here, I declar for’t, he got the
+best on me at fust;” and after having thus delivered himself, he
+swallowed up our hands in his ample fists.
+
+“Yes, Shoop, I thought I’d just run up to the old home for a few days.”
+
+“Wa’al, I swar! I’m tarnal glad to see ye, and that’s a fact. Anybody
+cum up arter ye? No? Well, then, s’posin’ ye jest highst into my team.”
+So saying, he unhitched a corrugated shackle-jointed steed, and backed
+around his indescribable impromptu covered wagon--a sort of a hybrid
+between a “one-hoss shay” and a truck.
+
+“’Tain’t much of a kerridge fer city folks to ride in, that’s a fact,”
+he continued, “but I cal’late it’s a little better’n shinnin’ it.” After
+some little manœuvring in the way of climbing over the front seat, we
+were soon wedged in the narrow compass, and, with an old horse-blanket
+over our knees, we went rattling down the hill toward the village and
+home of my boyhood.
+
+Years have passed since those days when, as a united family, we dwelt
+under that old roof; but those who once were children are now men and
+women, with divided interests and individual homes. The old New England
+mansion is now a homestead only in name, known so only in recollections
+of the past and the possibilities of the future.
+
+“Wa’al, thar’s the old house,” presently exclaimed Amos, as we neared
+the brow of a declivity looking down into the valley below. “Don’t look
+quite so spruce as’t did in the old times, but Warner’s a good keerful
+tenant, ’tain’t no use talkin’. I cal’late yeu might dig a pleggy long
+spell afore yeu could git another feller like him in this ’ere patch.”
+
+In the vale below, in its nest of old maples and elms, almost screened
+from view by the foliage, we look upon the familiar outlines of the old
+mansion, its diamond window in the gable peering through the branches at
+us. “Skedup!” cried Amos, as he urged his pet nag into a jog-trot down
+the hill, through the main street of the town. The long fence in front
+of the homestead is soon reached, a sharp turn into the drive, a “Whoa,
+January!” and we are extricated from the wagon.
+
+“Wa’al, I’ll leave ye naow. I guess ye kin find yer way around,” said
+Shoop, as with one outlandish geometrical stride he lifted himself into
+the wagon. Cordially greeted by our hostess, with repeated urgings to
+“make ourselves at home,” we were shown to our room. The house, though
+clad in a new dress, still retained the same hospitable and cosy look as
+of old.
+
+[Illustration: OLD HOMESTEAD AND GARRET.]
+
+Hometown, owing to some early local faction, is divided into two
+sections, forming two distinct towns. One, Newborough, a hill-top
+hamlet, with its picturesque long street, a hundred feet in width, and
+shaded with great weeping elms that almost meet overhead; and the other,
+Hometown proper, a picturesque little village in the valley, cuddling
+close around the foot of a precipitous bluff, known as Mount Pisgah. A
+mile’s distance separates the two centres. The old homestead is
+situated in the heart of Hometown, fronting on the main street. The
+house itself is a series of after-thoughts, wing after wing and gable
+after gable having clustered around the old nucleus, as the growth of
+new generations necessitated increased accommodation. Its outward aspect
+is rather modern, but the interior, with its broad open fireplaces, and
+accessaries in the shape of cranes and fire-dogs, is rich with all the
+features of typical New England; and the two gables of the main roof
+enclose the dearest old garret imaginable--at present an asylum for the
+quaint possessions of antique furniture and bric-à-brac, removed from
+their accustomed quarters on the advent of the new host. It is to this
+sanctuary that my footsteps first lead me, and, with a longing that will
+not be withstood, I find myself in front of the great white door. I lift
+the latch; a cool pungent odor of oak wood greets me as I ascend the
+steep stairs--an odor that awakens, like magic, a hundred fancies, and
+recalls a host of memories long forgotten. Every stair seems to creak a
+welcome, as when, on the rainy days of long ago, we sought the cosy
+refuge to hear the patter on the roof, or to nestle in the dark, obscure
+corners in our childish games. At the head of the stairs rises the
+ancient chimney, cleft in twain at the foot, with the quaint little
+cuddy between. Above me stretch the great beams of oak, like iron in
+their hardness. Yonder is the queer old diamond window looking out upon
+the village church, its panes half obscured by the dusty maze of webs.
+To the left, in a shadowy corner, stands the antiquated wheel--a relic
+of past generations. Long gray cobwebs festoon the rafters overhead, and
+the low buzzing of a wasp betrays its mud nest in the gable above. A
+sense of sadness steals over me as I sit gazing into this still chamber.
+On every side are mementos of a happy past, and all, though mute,
+speaking to me in a language whose power stirs the depths of my soul.
+Wherever the eye may turn, it meets with a silent greeting from an old
+friend, and the whole shrouded in a weird gloom that lends to the most
+common object an air of melancholy mystery. And yet it is only a garret.
+There are some, no doubt, for whom this word finds its fitting synonyme
+in the dictionary, but there are others to whom it sings a poem of
+infinite sweetness.
+
+Looking through the dingy window between the maple boughs, my eye
+extends over lawn and shrubberies, three acres in extent--a little park,
+overrun with paths in every direction, through ancient orchard and
+embowered dells, while far beyond are glimpses of the wooded knolls, the
+winding brook, and meadows dotted with waving willows, and farther still
+the ample undulating farm.
+
+[Illustration: AMONG THE GRASSES.]
+
+It is in such a place as this that I have sought recreation and change
+of scene. My wife and I have run away from the city for a month or so. A
+vacation we call it; but to an artist such a thing is rarely known in
+its ordinary sense, and often, indeed, it means an increase of labor
+rather than a respite. My first week, however, I had consecrated to
+luxurious idleness. Together we wandered through the old familiar
+rambles where as boy and girl in earlier days we had been so oft
+together. Day after day found us in some new retreat. There were dark
+cool nooks by sheltered streams, spicy groves of pine and spruce,
+wooded slopes and rocky dells, and meadows rich with summer bloom, where
+idle butterflies flitted lazily on the wing; where meadow lilies nodded
+in billowing fields, and the daisies and red clover waved about our
+knees half screened in feathery purple grasses that spread their cloudy
+mist all through the blossoming maze. We heard the music of the scythe,
+and, sitting in the deep cool grass beneath the maple shade, we watched
+the circling motion of the mowers in the field--saw the forkfuls of the
+hay tossed in the drying sun, and breathed the perfumed air that floated
+from the windrows. We sauntered by the meadow brook where willows
+gleamed along the bank, and overhanging alders threw their sombre
+shadows in the quiet pools: where the ground-nut, and the meadow-rue,
+and the creeping madder fringed the tangled brink, and every footstep
+started up some agile frog that plunged into the unseen water. We stood
+where rippling shallows gurgled under festooned canopies of fox-grape,
+and the leaning linden-trees shut out the sky o’erhead and intertwined
+their drooping branches above the gliding current. Here, too, the
+weather-beaten crossing-pole makes its tottering span across the stream,
+and deep down beneath the bank the rainbow-tinted sunfish floats on
+filmy fins above his yellow bed of gravel, and we catch a flashing gleam
+of a silvery dace or shiner turning in the water.
+
+Now we confront a rude slab fence, an ancient landmark, that terminates
+its length at the edge of the stream, where its gray and crumbling
+boards are secured with rusty nails against the trunk of a tall
+buttonwood-tree. A loosened slab is easily found, and we are soon upon
+the other side; and after picking our way through a forest of
+bush-elders, we emerge upon an open lot of low flat pasture-land, known
+always as the “old swamp meadow.” No other five acres on the face of the
+earth are so dear to me as this neglected field. I know its every rise
+and fall of ground, its every bog, and its lush greenness is refreshing
+even to the thought.
+
+It is a luxuriant garden of all manner of succulent and juicy
+vegetation; an outbursting extravagance of plant life of almost tropical
+exuberance. All New England’s most majestic and ornamental flora seem
+congregated in its congenial soil; and even when a boy I learned to know
+and love them all, and even call them by their names.
+
+Here are towering stems of iron-weed lifting high their scattered purple
+crowns, and in their midst the woolly clumps of boneset, its white
+flowered cushions intermingling with the dense pink tufts of
+thorough-wort.
+
+On every side we overlook whole patches of these splendid blossoms, with
+their crests closely crowded in a mosaic of pink and white. And here’s a
+bed of peppermint and spearmint, interspersed with flaming spikes of
+cardinal lobelia; and here a lusty plant of Indian mallow, entangled in
+a maze of gold-thread and smart-weed. Here are massive burdocks six feet
+high, and great trees of jimson-weed, with their large spiral flowers
+and thorny pods.
+
+High fronds of chain-fern rise up on every side from a jungle of
+bur-marigolds and clotburs, and tear-thumbs, with their saw-toothed
+stems and tiny bunches of pink blossoms.
+
+No inch of ground in the old swamp lot but which does its tenfold duty;
+and what it lacks in quality of produce it amply makes up in quantity.
+Even a neighboring bed of clean-washed gravel is overrun with creeping
+mallow, with its rounded leaves and little “cheeses” down among their
+shadows.
+
+[Illustration: EVEN-TIDE.]
+
+Farther on we see the lily-pond, with its surrounding swamp and its
+legion of crowded water-plants. Here are rank, massive beds of
+swamp-cabbage, and lofty cat-tails by the thousand among the bristling
+bogs of tussock-sedge and bulrush. Here are calamus patches, and alder
+thickets, and sedges without number; and the prickly carex and blue-flag
+abound on every side. There are galingales and reeds, and tall and
+graceful rushes, turtle-head and jointed scouring grass, and horse-tail,
+besides a host of other old acquaintances, whose faces are familiar, but
+whose names I never knew. But they were all my friends in boyhood. I
+knew them in the bud and in the blossom, and even in their winter
+skeletons, brown and broken in the snow. Near by there is a ditch: you
+never would know it, for it is completely hidden from view beneath an
+interlacing growth of jewel-weed. But see that gorgeous mass of deep
+scarlet that floods the farther bank! Nowhere within a circuit of miles
+around is there such a regal display of cardinal flowers as this:
+skirting the borders of the ditch for rods and rods, clustering about a
+ruined, tumbling fence, whose moss-grown pickets are almost hidden in
+the dense profusion of bloom.
+
+Then there is its airy companion, the “touch-me-not,” with its
+translucent, juicy stem, and its queer little golden flowers with
+spotted throats--the “jewel-weed” we used to call it. I know not why,
+unless from the magic of its leaf, which, when held beneath the water,
+was transformed to iridescent frosted silver. We all remember its
+sensitive, jumping seed-pods, that burst even at our approach for fear
+that we should touch them; but no one can fully appreciate the beauty of
+the plant who has not seen its silvery leaf beneath the water. Here it
+justifies its name, for it is indeed a jewel.
+
+How often in those olden times have I lain down among these bulrushes
+and sedges near the lily pond, and listened to the buzzing songs of the
+crickets and the tiny katydids that swarmed the growth about me, and
+filled the air with their incessant din. I remember the little colony of
+ants that picked their way among the rushes; that gauzy dragon-fly too,
+that circled and dodged about the water’s edge, now skimming close upon
+the surface, now darting out of sight, or perhaps alighting on an
+overhanging sedge, as motionless as a mounted specimen, with wings
+aslant and fully spread. “Devil’s darning-needles” they were called. The
+devil may well be proud of them; for darning-needles of such precious
+metals and such exquisite design are rare indeed. They were of several
+sizes too. Some were large, and flashed the azure of the sapphire;
+others fluttered by with smoky, pearly wings, and slender bodies
+glittering in the light like animated emeralds: and another I well
+remember, a little airy thing, with a glistening sunbeam for a body, and
+wings of tiny rainbows.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+I remember how I watched the disturbed motion of the arrow-heads out in
+the water, as the cautious turtles worked their way among them, and
+crawled out upon the stump close by.
+
+Here they huddled together, a dozen or more, with heads erect, and
+turning from side to side as they surveyed the surrounding carpet of
+lily-pads, or listened to the bass-drum chorus of the great green
+bull-frogs among the pickerel-weed; and when I jumped and yelled at
+them, what a rolling, sprawling, splashing in the mud! It fairly makes
+me laugh to think of it. But there is hardly a leaf or wisp of grass in
+this old swamp lot but what brings back some old association or pleasant
+reminiscence.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+For a week thus we idled, now on the mountain, now in the meadow, while
+I, with my sketch-book and collecting-box, either whiled away the hours
+with my pencil, or left the unfinished work to pursue the tantalizing
+butterfly, or search for unsuspecting caterpillars among the weeds and
+bushes.
+
+[Illustration: SOME ART CONNOISSEURS.]
+
+[Illustration: PROFESSOR WIGGLER.]
+
+On a sprig of black alder I found one--the same little fellow as of old,
+afflicted with the peculiarities of all his progenitors. We used to call
+him “Professor Wiggler,” owing to an hereditary nervous habit of
+wiggling his head from side to side when not otherwise employed. To
+this little humpbacked creature I am indebted for a great deal of past
+amusement. Distinctly I remember the whack-whack-whack on the inside of
+the old pasteboard box as the captive pets threatened to dash out their
+brains in their demonstrations at my approach. Professor Wiggler is
+really a most remarkable insect, as one might readily imagine from his
+scientific name, for in learned circles this individual is known as Mr.
+Gramatophora Trisignata. He has many strange eccentricities. At each
+moult of the skin he retains the shell of his former head on a long
+vertical filament. Two or three thus accumulate, and, as a consequence,
+in his maturer years he looks up to the head he wore when he was a
+youngster, and ponders on the flight of time and the hollowness of
+earthly things, or perhaps congratulates himself on the increased
+contents of his present shell. When fully grown, he stops eating, and
+goes into a new business. Selecting a suitable twig, he gnaws a
+cylindrical hole to its centre and follows the pith, now and then
+backing out of the tunnel, and dropping the excavated material in the
+form of little balls of sawdust. At length he emerges from the hollow,
+and again drawing himself in backward, spins a silken disk across the
+opening, and tints it with the color of the surrounding bark. Here he
+spends the winter, and comes out in a new spring suit in the following
+May. Only recently I had in my possession several of these twigs with
+their enclosed caterpillars, and in every one the color of the silken
+lid so closely matched the tint of the adjacent bark, although
+different in each, that several of my friends, even with the most
+careful scrutiny, failed to detect the deceptive spot. Whether the
+result of chance or of the instincts of the insect, I do not know; but
+certain it is that he paints with different colors under varying
+circumstances.
+
+Insect-hunting had always been a passion with me. Large collections of
+moths and butterflies had many times accumulated under my hands, only to
+meet destruction through boyish inexperience; and even in childhood the
+love for the insect and the passion for the pencil strove hard for the
+ascendency, and were only reconciled by a combination which filled my
+sketch-book with studies of insect life.
+
+There was one inhabitant of our fields which had always been to me a
+never-failing source of entertainment. There he is, the gilded tyrant. I
+see him now swinging to and fro on his glistening nest of silken
+threads, his golden yellow form glowing in bold relief against the dark
+recess in the brambles. My sketch is left in the grass, and I am soon
+seated in front of the gossamer maze. A festive grasshopper jumps up
+into my face, and makes a carom on the web. With a spasmodic snap of one
+hind leg he extricates it from its entanglement, and in another instant
+would fall from the meshes; but the agile spider is too quick for him.
+With a movement so swift as almost to elude the eye, he draws from his
+body a silver cloud of floss, and with his long hind legs throws it over
+his captive. The head and tail of the grasshopper are now further
+secured, after which the spider carefully straddles around the
+struggling insect, and bites off the other radiating webs in close
+proximity. The unlucky prey now hangs suspended across the opening. With
+business-like coolness his tormentor dangles himself from the edge of
+the torn web, and another cataract of glistening floss is thrown up and
+attached to the under side of the prisoner, after which he is turned
+round and round, as if on a spit. The stream of floss is carried from
+head to foot, and in less time than it takes to describe it the victim
+is wrapped in a silken winding-sheet, and soon meets his death from the
+poisoned fangs of his captor. Here is but one of the thousands of
+tragedies that are taking place every hour of the day in our fields.
+While deeply interested in the closing scenes of this one, I suddenly
+become aware of a shadow passing over the bushes. I turn my head, and
+meet the puzzled and pleasant gaze of Amos Shoopegg, as he stands there,
+hands in pockets, and milk-pail swinging from his wrist.
+
+[Illustration: THE TYRANT OF THE FIELDS.]
+
+“Wa’al, thar,” he exclaims, banging down one brawny fist on his uplifted
+knee. “Buggin’ agin, I swaow! Hain’t yeu got over thet yit? What yeu kin
+find so mighty fine in them ’ere bugs beats me.”
+
+“Amos,” I replied, “there’s a great deal more in these bugs than you
+imagine.”
+
+“A pleggy sight, I suppose,” he resumed. “What specie o’ critter ye got
+hold on naow?” and he stretched forward his fringed and weather-beaten
+neck, and peered over the brambles. “What is’t ye got
+thar--straddle-bug?” He came still nearer, and looked at the spider.
+“Wa’al, darn my pictur ef ’tain’t an old yeller-belly! P’r’aps you don’t
+know that them critters is pizen. Why, Eben Sanford’s gal got all chawed
+up by one on ’em. Great Sneezer!” he exclaimed, taking three or four
+strides backward, with both hands uplifted. I had merely raised my hand
+and gently smoothed the spider.
+
+“Wa’al,” he continued, “yen kin rub ’em daown ef yeu pleze; but fer _my_
+part, I’d ruther keep off abaout a good spittin’ distance”--which was
+the Shoopegg way of expressing a length of about fifteen feet. Amos was
+crossing lots for his “caow,” he said; but in spite of his plea that the
+“old heiffer” was “bellerin’” like “Sam Hill,” and was “gittin’ ’tarnal
+on-easy,” I made him tarry sufficiently long to enable me to send him
+off a wiser man.
+
+Amos Shoopegg is a type of a large class of the native element of
+Hometown. Of course, “Shoopegg” is not his actual name. In the long line
+of his prided Puritan ancestry no one ever bore it before him. This is
+only an affectionate epithet given him by the village boys full twenty
+years ago, and it has stuck to him closer than a brother ever since, as
+those festive surnames always do. Nominally, Amos was a farmer. In
+summer he was one in fact, and could swing off as pretty a swath in
+haying as any man in town. But in the winter he changed his vocation,
+and became a disciple of the “waxed-end.” All day long he could be seen,
+closeted with a little red-hot stove, plying his trade in his small,
+square shop, up near the old red school-house. Here he pounded on the
+big lapstone on his knees, or, with strap and foot-stick in position,
+punched and tugged around the edge of those marvellous brogans. He made
+slings and leather “suckers” for the boys, and furnished them with all
+the black-wax they could chew--or stow-away, to stick between the lining
+of their pockets. And the huge wooden shoe-pegs that he drove beneath
+his hammer were a sight to behold. The man who used his “cheap line of
+goods” might verily say he walked upon a wood-pile.
+
+So they dubbed him “Shoe-peg,” or “Shoop” for brevity. There are others
+among his neighbors who would furnish an inexhaustible source of study
+to the student of character. There’s old Rufus Fairchild, known as
+“Roof,” a rotund specimen of rural jollity, his round face set in
+dishevelled locks of gray, with a twinkle in his eye and a good word for
+everybody. And there’s Father Tomlinson, who keeps the post-office down
+by the dam, as genial an old fellow as ever wrapped up his throat in a
+white stock. And I might almost continue the list indefinitely. But
+there is one I must especially mention; and, now that I think of it, he
+really should have headed the list, for he stands alone--or at least he
+does _sometimes_. If you are in search of the embodiment of typical
+Erin, you need go no farther; here he is. This individual represents
+another nationality which swells the population of Hometown--the
+hard-working laborers who toil in the great factory down in the glen,
+called “Satan’s Misery.” The above personage is one of the best-hearted
+creatures in the town; but it is the old story, and the world to him is
+enclosed in the compass of a barrel-hoop. When last I saw him he was in
+an evident decline, but as I put my finger on his wrist I could still
+feel the pulsations of the whiskey coursing through his veins.
+
+“Look here, my good fellow,” I said to him one day, “why don’t you taper
+off a little? If you keep on in this way, you’ll be in your grave in
+less than a month. How would you like that?”
+
+“Arrah, begorra,” he replied, with a look of hopeful resignation, “if I
+cud awnly be shure o’ me gude skvare dthrink in the other wurrld, oi
+wudn’t moind.”
+
+The record of a single evening spent in the village store, with its
+rural jargon and homespun yarns, its odd vernacular and rustic gossip,
+would make a volume as rare and unique as the characters it would
+depict.
+
+The store itself is a matchless picture in its way, and for variety in
+accessory is as rich as could be wished for. The low, murky ceiling,
+hung with all manner of earthly goods--scythes and rakes, boots and
+pails, in pendulous array; bottles and boxes, brooms and breast-pins,
+are here--in short, everything that heart could wish or thought suggest,
+from speckled calicoes to seven-cent sugar, or from a three-tined fork
+to a goose-yoke. Evening after evening, for an hour or so, I was tempted
+thither, until I found the week had gone. Sunday came again--Sunday in
+New England. The old bell swung on its wheel in the belfry, ringing out
+its call to devotion, and ere the echo had died in the recesses of the
+mountain beyond the still atmosphere reverberated with an answering peal
+from the little sister church in the valley below, as the scattered
+groups with strolling steps wend their way to “meeting,” and the gay
+loads from Newborough go flitting by on the accustomed Sunday drive.
+
+Monday dawned on Hometown. It found me up and doing. I had enjoyed one
+week of glorious loafing, but work was the programme for the next. I
+went to Draper’s Inn and engaged a horse and buggy “until further
+notice.” “A spang-up team” he called it, and it would be up “in half a
+jiffy.” We were waiting for it when it came, and what with our variety
+of luggage in the shape of canvases, color-boxes, hammocks, camp-seats,
+and easels, every bit of available space in that buggy was well
+utilized. Before the clock has struck nine, we are spinning along down
+through the village, now past the store, now over the bridge, and
+turning to the right, we glide by the little post-office, as the kind
+face of Father Tomlinson nods a “good-bye” from the door-way.
+
+A little farther, and we have left the little slope-roofed school-house
+in our path, and are soon ascending the long hill of Zoar, from which we
+look back four miles to the cliff and nestling town. In ten minutes more
+we approach the brow of a steep declivity, and the broad Housatonic
+opens up to view, winding off into the misty mountains in the distance.
+There is now a drive of half a mile along the side of a wild
+mountain-slope, where mountain-laurels grow in wild profusion, and the
+rooty, overhanging banks are tufted with rich green moss, overgrown with
+checker-berries and arbutus. The river roars far down below us, and for
+a few minutes our eyes feast on as lovely an extent of varied New
+England landscape as is easily found. And yet this is only a short
+section of one of the many matchless drives that follow the course of
+this beautiful river around the borders of Hometown.
+
+[Illustration: FAMILIAR FACES AT THE VILLAGE STORE.]
+
+Suddenly we leave the stream as it glides away on an abrupt turn beneath
+the crescent of a rocky precipice, and before we have fairly lost the
+sound of the ripples we have arrived at our journey’s end. A pair of
+bars under an old butternut-tree mark the place. The carriage is backed
+to the side of the road, and the horse turned loose in the rocky meadow.
+This is Joab Nichols’s “pasture lot,” with fodder consisting principally
+of huge boulders, hardhack, and spleenwort; to be sure, with a stray
+relish of “butter-and-eggs” here and there, and a thousand white saucers
+of wild carrot handy to go with them. One or two trips across the field
+bring all our luggage, and we are soon enjoying cool comfort in the
+hemlock shade of a fairy grotto. Above us the babbling brook bounds and
+splashes over mossy rocks, disappearing in a mass of creamy foam, from
+under which it eddies toward us only to plunge twenty feet into a
+miniature cañon below. Again, yonder it bubbles into a whirling pool,
+where the bordering ferns bend and nod above its buoyant surface; and
+now gliding from view beneath the tangle of drooping boughs, it
+disappears only to burst forth once more in its merry song as it rushes
+over the rapids.
+
+    “I chatter, chatter as I go,
+       To join the brimming river;
+     For men may come and men may go,
+       But I go on forever.”
+
+Here in this wild retreat I have found my sylvan studio--shut in by
+fringed and fragrant evergreens, enlivened by the undergrowth of
+feathery fronds, and the shimmer of the beech, as the tracery of
+overhanging boughs trembles in the gentle breeze. Day after day finds us
+in this little paradise, and as one in luxurious hammock swings away the
+hours, now lost in fiction, now in short repose, or perhaps with busy
+needle fashions graceful figures in Kensington design, the canvas on the
+easel shows a fortnight’s constant care, and the palette changes to a
+keepsake of a sunny memory--a tinted souvenir.
+
+For two weeks the gurgling brook sang to us in this wild retreat. As
+evening after evening closed in upon us, the unfinished pictures were
+stowed away in horizontal crevices between the rocks, and, with hammock
+still swinging in the trees, we left the gloom to the hooting owl, that
+evening after evening, with tremulous cry, proclaimed the twilight hour
+from the tall hemlock overhead. Ere long the murmuring Housatonic
+shimmers below us in the moonlight as we hurry on our homeward way, and
+the distant lights of Hometown are soon seen glimmering; through the
+evening mist. The old bridge now rumbles through the darkness its signal
+of our return, and the host of Draper’s Inn is seen awaiting us at the
+illumined door-way. A quiet, cosy supper, and in the rays of a gleaming
+lantern, held aloft to light our path, we follow our lengthening shadows
+to the old front gate. Repeat this day’s record fourteen times, and you
+have the sum of a happy experience, with but one drawback: it had an
+end--an end that would have left its reaction, were it not for the store
+of increased pleasure that awaited us for the few closing days of our
+pilgrimage--for me, at least, although in other scenes, its climax.
+
+[Illustration: A SOUVENIR.]
+
+Many like me are happy in the possession of a dear old homestead; but
+there are few, I ween, who enjoy the blessing of a double inheritance
+such as has been my lot--two homes which share my equal devotion, two
+homes without a choice; the one this beloved heirloom in Hometown, and
+the other--But you shall see. We shall be there soon, for the little
+satchel is packed, and the carriage awaits us at the gate. A drive of
+eighteen miles is before us--a beautiful series of pictures. Down
+through the village, past the old red mill and smithy, with its ringing
+anvil, and we are soon winding our way through a sombre glen. Presently
+we catch glimpses of the great rumbling factory, with its clouds of
+smoke and steam melting into the wooded mountain above. The old yellow
+bridge now creaks under our approach, and ere we are aware a sudden turn
+leads us out of a wilderness on to the shore of the beautiful
+Housatonic. For a few minutes the rushing water trickles through the
+wheels as over jolting stones our pony leads us through the ford, and,
+refreshed by the cool bath, makes a lively sally up the eastern bank.
+For ten miles the Housatonic guides us around its winding curves through
+a path of ever-changing beauty, now shut in by the dense, dark
+evergreens, and again emerging into a bower of silvery beeches, where
+the roadway is carpeted with mottled shadows, and the dappled trunks
+flicker with the softened glints of sunlight. Here we come upon a sandy
+stretch where the road is sunken between two sloping banks thick-set
+with mulleins and sweet-fern, and overrun with creeping brambles. The
+stone-wall above is wreathed in trailing woodbine, and along its crest
+we see the swaying tips of wheat from the edge of the field just beyond;
+and here we pass a border of whortleberry bushes, laden with their
+fruit. Now it is a hazel thicket crowding close upon our wheels, and
+among the leaves we see the brown, tanned husks of the ripening nuts,
+almost ready for that troop of boys and girls that you may be sure are
+watching and waiting for them.
+
+The old gray toll-bridge soon nears to view, with its two long spans and
+fantastic beams. Farther on, peering from its willows, stands the ruined
+cider-mill, with its long moss-grown lever jutting through the trees--an
+old-time haunt, now crumbling in decay. But we only catch a glimpse of
+it, for in a moment more we are shut in beneath another bower of beeches
+and white birches, where the road takes a steep ascent, and the rippling
+river sends up its sunny reflections among the leaves and tree-trunks.
+When once more upon a level, it is to look ahead through a long avenue
+of shade--a leafy canopy two miles in length--with only an occasional
+break to open up some charming bit of landscape across the water. In
+these two miles of umbrage you may see types of almost every tree that
+grows within the boundaries of New England. Old veteran beeches are
+here, their trunks disfigured with scars that once were names cut in the
+bark. Here are spots that look like half obliterated figures; and here
+are spreading hieroglyphs that tell, perhaps, of old-time vows plighted
+at the trysting-tree; and here’s a semblance of a heart, a broken heart
+indeed, if its present form be taken as a prophetic symbol.
+
+[Illustration: ALONG THE HOUSATONIC.]
+
+There are magnificent rock-maples too, and silver-maples that shake down
+their little swarms of winged seeds. Tulip-trees and spotted buttonwoods
+grow side by side, and quivering aspens and white poplars are seen at
+every clearing. There are yellow birch-trunks frayed out with the wind,
+and great snake-like stems of grape-vine, that twist and writhe among
+the branches of the trees. There are hop hornbeams, and chestnuts,
+and--But there is no need to enumerate them all. Just think of every New
+England tree you ever knew, and add a score besides, and you will form a
+slight idea of the varied verdure that hems in this charming Housatonic
+drive, with its rocky roadside embroidered in trickling moss and
+fumitory; and rose-flowered mountain-raspberry growing so close upon the
+road that your pony takes a wayward nip, and plucks its blossomed tip as
+he passes.
+
+Now comes an open level, with wide, expansive views, where every turn
+upon the road brings its fresh surprise, as some new combination of hazy
+mountain landscape towers above the distant river bend; and the flitting
+cloud shadows lead their capricious, undulating chase across the wooded
+slopes. The roadsides here are full of everchanging beauties too, with
+their trimmings of ornamental sunflowers, their picturesque old fences,
+and their clumps of purple-berried poke-weed, with here and there a
+yellow patch of toad-flax, and aromatic tufts of tansy hugging close
+against the fence. Even that clambering screen of clematis that trails
+over the shrubbery yonder cannot hide the scattered tips of crimson that
+already have appeared among the sumach leaves.
+
+There are a thousand things one meets upon a country ride or ramble
+which at the time are allowed to pass with but a glance. The eye is
+surfeited and the mind confused with the continual pageantry. But months
+afterward, in the reveries about our winter fires, they all come back to
+us, with the added charm of reminiscence; and whether it be a crystal
+spring among a bank of ferns, or a thistle-top with its fluttering
+butterfly and inevitable bumblebee rolling in the tufted blossom, or a
+squirrel running along a rail, or perhaps a rattling grasshopper
+hovering in mid-air above the dusty road--no matter what, they all are
+welcome memories at our fireside, and draw our hearts still closer to
+the loveliness of nature.
+
+This Housatonic road is rich in just such pastoral pictures. Two hours
+on such a course soon pass, when our pony whinnies at the welcome sight
+of the old log water-trough beyond--a landmark old and green when I was
+yet a boy, still nestling in its rocky bed, shadowed by the drooping
+hemlocks, still lavish with its overflowing bounty.
+
+This benefactor by the way-side marks a turning-point in our journey, as
+we leave the grandeur of the Housatonic to pursue our way by the nooks
+and dingles of the wild Shepaug--a bubbling tributary whose happy waters
+sing of a varied experience. Now placid through the blossoming fields,
+now plunging down the precipice to ripple through a verdant valley,
+where, hemmed in at every turn, it seeks its only liberty beneath the
+rumbling of the old mill-wheels; and at last, ere it loses its identity
+in the swelling tide, leaving a mischievous and tumultuous record as it
+pours through the rocky cañon, and with surging, whirling volume carves
+huge caverns and fantastic statues in its massive bed of stone. Even now
+through the dark forest beyond we can hear the muffled roar, and for
+nearly a league farther as we ascend the long hill it comes to us in
+fitful whispers wafted on the changing breeze. Reaching the summit of
+this incline, we find ourselves on a hill-top wide and far-reaching, on
+right and left losing itself in wooded wold, while in front the level
+road diminishes to a point, surmounted by blue hills in the distance.
+Two miles on a pastoral hill-top, where golden-rod and tall spiræas
+cluster along the lichen-covered walls, where orange-lilies gleam among
+the alders, with now and then a blazing group of butterfly-plant or a
+dusty clump of milk-weed. The air is laden with the nut-like odor of the
+everlasting flowers all around us. The buzzing drum of the harvest-fly
+vibrates from every tree, and we hear the tinkling bell and lowing of
+the cattle in some neighboring field. Farther on, we look down from the
+edge of the plateau through the length of Happy Valley, with its winding
+stream, its barns and busy mills, its sunny homes glinting through the
+summer haze. On the left the lofty shadowed cliff known as “Steep-rock”
+towers against the evening sky, and again we catch the murmuring whiffs
+of the rushing stream in its sweeping bend beneath the overhanging
+precipice. A sharp turn round a jutting hill-side, and I meet a prospect
+that quickens the heart and makes the eye grow dim. There beyond, three
+miles “as flies the laden bee,” I linger on the welcome sight, as on its
+hill-top fair two steeples side by side betray the hidden town, my
+second home.
+
+How lightly did I appreciate the fortunate journey when, twenty summers
+ago, I followed this road for the first time, when a boy of ten years,
+on my way to an unknown village, I looked across the landscape to the
+little spires on that distant hill! Little did I dream of the six years
+of unmixed happiness and precious experience that awaited me in that
+little Judea! I only knew that I was sadly quitting a happy home on my
+way to “boarding-school”--a school called the Snuggery, taught by a Mr.
+Snug, in a little village named Snug Hamlet, about twenty miles from
+Hometown.
+
+There are some experiences in the life of every one which, however
+truthful, cannot be told but to elicit the doubtful nod or the warning
+finger of incredulity. They were such experiences as these, however,
+that made up the sum of my early life in that happy refuge called in
+modern parlance a “boarding-school”--a name as empty, a word as weak and
+tame in its significance, as poverty itself; no doubt abundantly
+expressive in its ordinary application, but here it is a mockery and a
+satire. This is not a “boarding-school;” it is a _household_, whose
+memories moisten the eye and stir the soul; to which its scattered
+members through the fleeting years look back as to a neglected home,
+with father and mother dear, whom they long once more to meet as in the
+tenderness of boyhood days; a cherished remembrance which, like the
+“house upon a hill, cannot be hid,” but sends abroad its light unto many
+hearts who in those early days sought the loving shelter; a bright star
+in the horizon of the past, a glow that ne’er grows dim, but only
+kindles and brightens with the flood of years. Yes, yes; I know it
+sounds like a dash of sentiment, but words of mine are feeble and
+impotent indeed when sought for the expression of an attachment so fond,
+of a love so deep.
+
+Fifteen years ago, with a parting full of sorrow, I rode away from Snug
+Hamlet yonder in the village stage--a day that brought a depression that
+lingered long, and lingers still. Glowing, sunset-tinted fields glide by
+unnoticed now, as, with eyes intent on the distant hill, I look back
+through the lapse of time. A mile has gone without my knowing it, when a
+joyous laugh awakens me from my day-dreams. Two boys approach us on the
+road ahead, and, what might seem very strange to you, one wears a wooden
+boot-jack strung around his neck and dangling on his breast; but he
+carries his burden lightly and cheerfully. As they near the carriage I
+draw the rein, and they both pause by the roadside.
+
+“Well, boys,” I ask, “where do _you_ hail from?”
+
+“We’re from the Snuggery, sir.”
+
+“I thought so,” said I, with a laugh, in which they both joined. “But
+what are you doing with that boot-jack?”
+
+“Oh, you see,” said one, with a roguish smile, “Charlie and I were
+having a little tussle in the sitting-room, and he picked up Mr. Snug’s
+boot-jack in the corner and began to pummel me with it; and jest as we
+were having it the worst, and were rollin’ on the floor, Mr. Snug came
+in and caught us in the job, and now we’re _payin’_ for it.”
+
+“How so?” I inquired, well knowing what would be the response.
+
+“Oh, you see, Mr. Snug held a diagnosis over our remains, and said he
+thought we were suffering, for the want of a little exercise, and
+ordered us on a trip to Judd’s Bridge.”
+
+“And the boot-jack?”
+
+“Oh, he said that Charlie might want to play with that some more on the
+way, and that he’d better fetch it along;” and with a mischievous
+snicker at his encumbered companion, he led him along the road in an
+hilarious race, while we enjoyed a hearty laugh at their expense.
+
+And this a _punishment_! Yes, here is an introduction to one phase of a
+system of correction as unique as the matchless institution in which it
+had its birth--a system without a parallel in the annals of chastisement
+or school government, and which for thirty years has proved its wisdom
+in the household management of the Snuggery.
+
+“To Judd’s Bridge!” How natural the sound of those words! How many
+times have I myself been on that same pilgrimage of penance! The
+destination of these boys is a rickety but picturesque structure which
+spans the Shepaug five miles below Snug Hamlet. Through three decades it
+looks back to its host of acquaintances of those romping lads who, in
+the superfluity of exuberant spirits, made havoc and din in the
+household. The dose is administered with wise discrimination both as to
+the symptoms and the needs and strength of the patient. It always proves
+a sterling remedy, and sometimes, indeed, a sugar-coated one, as in the
+case of these two ruddy, rollicking examples.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Judd’s Bridge is but one of a score of places which serve in the
+administration of Snuggery discipline. It is, however, the one most
+remote, and its ten-mile journey is reserved as an heroic dose for
+extraordinary cases, after other prescriptions have been tried without
+avail. Next on the list comes Moody Barn, with “open doors” every day in
+the week to its frequent callers. This old settler, gray and
+weather-beaten, marks a point one mile from the Snuggery, where the
+still waters of the Shepaug run slow and deep--the favorite
+“swimming-hole” of the Snuggery.
+
+[Illustration: THE HAUNTED MILL.]
+
+And then there’s Kirby Corners, a mere stroll of a few minutes round the
+square of a rock-bound pasture--just enough to give yourself time to
+think a bit and congratulate yourself on what you have escaped. All
+these, and several more, are vivid in my memory; friends, old and
+intimate. And here’s another, right before us by the roadside. For
+several minutes through the tantalizing trees we have heard its rumbling
+wheel, its reiterating clank, and busy saw; and now, as its familiar
+outline looms up against the evening sky, the vision seems to darken, as
+on that night of long ago, when through the shadowy mystery of the
+moonlit gloom I stole my way among the sheltering golden-rod; when the
+lofty flume, like a huge horned creature, seemed to stride athwart me in
+the darkness, and the fitful boyish fancy saw strange phantoms in the
+floating, melting mist. This ancient structure reposes in a verdant dell
+at the foot of Snug Hamlet Hill. A choice of two roads lies before
+us--one short and direct, the other a roundabout approach. A sudden
+impulse leads me into the latter. On right and left I see the same old
+rocks and trees. There stands the aged beech to whose gnarled and hollow
+trunk I traced the agile flying-squirrel, and with suffocating flame and
+smoke drove him from his hiding-place. Here between large rocks and
+stones the trout-stream runs its course, now pouring in small cataracts,
+now eddying into still, dark nooks, where in those by-gone times I
+dropped the line of expectancy, but showed the clumsiness of adversity.
+A few minutes later, and we are gliding again by the dark Shepaug, now
+flowing calm and silent beneath a rugged bank, wild and umbrageous,
+where the swarm of katydids, with grating discord, maintain their old
+dispute, that never-ending feud. The wheels turn noiselessly in the
+shifting sand as we pursue our way. The low gray fog steals lightly over
+the lily-pads, floating into seclusion beneath the sheltering boughs,
+or, like an evanescent spirit, borne upon the evening breath, is lifted
+from the gloom, and slowly melts into the twilight sky. The solitary
+whippoorwill from his mysterious haunt, perhaps in yonder tree, perhaps
+in the mountain loneliness beyond, proclaims with dismal cry his
+oft-repeated wail. And as we ascend the darkening path, through the
+still night air, in measured cadence long and sad, we hear the toll of
+the distant knell. Threescore-and-ten its numbers tell of the earthly
+years--a curfew requiem for the dead. Even as we pass the little chapel
+at the summit of the hill, and the bell has scarcely ceased its
+melancholy tidings, we hear the shouts and merry laughs of the boys on
+the village green. Presently its broad expanse, shut in by twinkling
+windows and massive trees, spreads out before us, as a clear and ringing
+voice, like that of old, echoes through the growing darkness, “One
+hundred! Nothing said, coming ahead!” and a dim figure steals cautiously
+from the steps of the old white church to seek in the sequestered
+hiding-places. With a heart that fairly thumps, I urge my pony onward
+across the green, and ere he slackens his pace I am at my journey’s end.
+The dear old Snuggery, with its gables manifold and quaint, its
+fantastic wings and towers, stands there before me, the glowing windows
+beaming through the maples. Leaving our pony in willing hands, we enter
+the gate, and are soon upon the wide porch.
+
+[Illustration: PURSUERS AND PURSUED.]
+
+It is eight o’clock, and the Snuggery is hushed in the quiet of the
+study hour, and as we look through the windows we see the little groups
+of studious lads bending over their books. Turning a corner on the
+piazza, we are confronted with a tall hexagonal structure at its farther
+end. This is the Tower, the lower room of which is consecrated to the
+cosy retirement of Mr. and Mrs. Snug. The door leading to the porch is
+open, and, as if awakening from a nap in which the past fifteen years
+have been a dream, I listen to the same dear voice. I approach nearer.
+Under the glow of a student’s lamp I look upon the beloved face, the
+flowing hair and beard now silvered with the lapse of years--a face of
+unusual firmness, but whose every line marks the expression of a tender,
+loving nature, and of a large and noble heart. Near him another sits--a
+helpmeet kind and true, cherished companion in a happy, useful life.
+Into her lap a nestling lad has climbed; and as she strokes the curly
+head and looks into the chubby face, I see the same expression as of
+old, the same motherly tenderness and love beaming from the large gray
+eyes.
+
+Mr. Snug is leaning back in his easy-chair, and two boys are standing up
+before him; one of them is speaking, evidently in answer to a question.
+
+“I called him a galoot, sir.”
+
+“You called George a galoot, and then he threw the base-ball club at
+you--is that it?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” interrupted George; “but I was only playing, sir.”
+
+“Yes,” resumed the voice of Mr. Snug, “but that club went with
+considerable force, and landed over the fence, and made havoc in Deacon
+Farish’s onion-bed; and that reminds me that the deacon’s onion-bed is
+overrun with weeds. Now, Willie,” continued Mr. Snug, after a moment’s
+hesitation, with eyes closed, and head thrown back against the chair,
+“Saturday morning--to-morrow, that is--directly after breakfast, you go
+out into the grove and call names to the big rock for half an hour.
+Don’t stop to take breath; and don’t call the same name twice. Your
+vocabulary will easily stand the drain. You understand?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“And, George,” continued Mr. Snug, with deliberate, easy intonation,
+“to-morrow morning, at the same time, you present yourself politely to
+Deacon Farish, tell him that I sent you, and ask him to escort you to
+his onion-bed. After which you will go carefully to work and pull out
+all the weeds. You understand, sir?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“And then you will both report to me as usual.” And with a pleasant
+smile, which was reflected in both their faces, the erring youngsters
+were dismissed. Before the door has closed behind them we are standing
+in the door-way. Here I draw the curtain; for who but one of its own
+household could understand a welcome at the Snuggery?
+
+Those of my old school-mates who read this meagre sketch will know the
+happiness of such a meeting; but others less fortunate in the
+recollections of school-life can only look for its counterpart in an
+affectionate welcome in their own homes, for the Snuggery _is_ a home to
+all who ever dwelt within its gates. Seated in the familiar cosiness,
+and surrounded by the friends of my school-days, the hours fly fast and
+pleasantly. There is plenty to talk about. Here is a village full of
+good people of whom I wish to learn, and there are many far-off chums of
+whom I carry tidings. A bell rings in the cupola as one by one, from the
+buzz in the outer rooms, boys large and small seek our seclusion for the
+accustomed good-night adieu; and ere another hour has passed forty
+sleepy urchins are packed away in their snug quarters. The evening runs
+on into midnight, as with stories of the past, its pains and penalties,
+its remembrances, now humorous now sad by turns, we recall the good old
+times; and the “wee sma’ hours” are already upon us as we reluctantly
+retire from the goodly company to our rooms across the way.
+
+[Illustration: TOLLING FOR THE DEAD.]
+
+The next morning finds us in the midst of a merry load, with Mr. Snug as
+a driver; and many and varied were the beauties that opened up before us
+on that charming ride! Snug Hamlet, once called Judea, in the qualities
+of its landscape as well as in everything else, is unique. Stripped of
+all its old associations, it presents to the artistic eye a combination
+of attractions scarcely to be equalled in the boundaries of New England.
+Situated itself on the brow of an abrupt hill, where its picturesque
+homes cluster about a broad open green, a few minutes’ drive in any
+direction reveals a surrounding panorama of the rarest loveliness. Five
+hundred feet below us, winding in and out, now beneath leafy tangles,
+now under quaint little bridges, and again reposing placidly in broad
+mill-ponds, the happy Shepaug lends to a lovely valley its usefulness
+and beauty. Turning in another direction, we pass the Snuggery
+ball-ground, animated with the shouts of victory; and descending into a
+vale of almost primeval wildness, we continue our way up the ascent of
+“Artist’s Hill,” from whose summit on every side, as far as the eye can
+reach, the landscape softens into the hazy horizon. Returning, we pass
+through a ruined waste, where, three months before, the fierce tornado
+swooped down in its fiendish fury. On every side we see its awful
+evidences. Huge oaks, like brittle pipe-stems, snapped from their
+moorings; sturdy hickories, mere play-things in the gale, twisted into
+shreds.
+
+[Illustration: WRECKS OF THE TORNADO.]
+
+Every morning saw me on some new drive, either with a wagon full of
+merry company, or as alone with Mr. Snug we held our quiet _tête-à-tête_
+on wheels, living over the olden times. In the afternoon I strolled by
+myself through the old and eloquent scenes. A volume could not hold the
+memories they revived--no, not even those of yonder barn alone. Even as
+I sit making my pencil-sketch, its reminiscences seem to float across
+the vision. Distinctly it recalls the events of one evening years ago.
+It was at about the sunset hour one Friday. I was quietly sitting on a
+lounge in the parlor talking to Cuthbert Harding, who was standing in
+front of me. Presently the door opens, and the tall figure of Dick Shin
+enters. Dick and I were antipodes in every sense of the word. Physically
+we were as a match and a billiard ball, he being the lucifer. He was
+also my _bête noire_, and he never missed an opportunity to vent his
+spite. Accordingly he stalked toward us, and with a violent push sent
+Cuthbert pell-mell on to me. In falling, he stepped heavily on my foot,
+and hurt me severely, which accounted for my excited expression as I
+threw him from me.
+
+Of course Mr. Snug had to come in just at this time, and seeing us in
+what looked to him very like a fight, he took us firmly by the ears and
+stood us side by side, while I ventured to explain.
+
+“Not a word!” exclaimed he, in a tone there was no mistaking. “You two
+boys may cool off on a trip to Moody Barn, after which you will report
+to me in the Tower. Now go.”
+
+Whatever may have been the state of my mind a few moments before, I was
+now mad in earnest, and with every bit of my latent obstinacy aroused, I
+sauntered out on to the porch.
+
+“Cool off, old boy,” whispered a grating voice at my side, as I turned
+and met the gaze of Dick Shin, motioning with his thumb in the direction
+of Moody Barn--“cool off; you need it;” and his ample mouth stretched
+into a sneering grin.
+
+I had already formed an intention, but now it was a resolve.
+
+“Cuthbert,” said I to my quiet and less choleric companion, when some
+distance down the road, “I am not going on that trip.”
+
+“Not going!” replied he, with surprise; “why, you’ll _have_ to go.”
+
+“But I _won’t_ go, and that settles it. It’s confounded unjust that
+we’re sent, anyhow, and I don’t propose to stand it.”
+
+“I think so too,” answered Cuthbert, with hesitating emphasis; “but
+what’ll we do? We’ll have to report to Mr. Snug, you know; that’s the
+_worst_ of it.”
+
+“Well, I’ll be spokesman, and I’ll _lie_ before I’ll go on that trip.”
+
+I was boiling over with righteous wrath, but Cuthbert never was known to
+boil; he only simmered a little, but readily seconded my plan. We
+stopped at Kirby Corners, and there, secluded from view in the bushes,
+we spent the interval. Cuthbert had a watch, and by the light of the
+rising moon we were enabled to fix the full period for the trip. One
+hour and a half we allowed--an abundant limit. During this time I had
+completely “cooled off,” and had schooled myself to that point where I
+could tell a lie with a smooth face and a clear conscience.
+Accordingly, when the time came, we appeared at the door of the Tower.
+Mr. Snug was sitting in his accustomed place, and we entered and stood
+before him.
+
+[Illustration: PASSING THOUGHTS.]
+
+“Well, sir,” said he, with a polite bow of the head, dropping his paper
+and looking up at us.
+
+“Mr. Snug, we have come to report,” said I, fearlessly. “We have been to
+Moody Barn.”
+
+Instantly Mr. Snug straightened himself up in his chair, pushed back
+the gray locks from his high forehead, and, with an expression that I
+never shall forget, glared at me from under the frowning eyebrows.
+
+“_You lie, sir!_” he exclaimed, in thundering tones that fairly made my
+hair stand on end, while Cuthbert trembled from head to foot; then
+followed a brief moment of consternation that seemed an age. “Now go!”
+continued he, as with an emphatic nod of the head he motioned toward the
+door. Sheepish and crest-fallen, we slunk away from the room. It is
+needless to say that we went this time. Through the darkness, by the aid
+of a lantern, we picked our way, as with theories numerous and ingenious
+we strove to account for that vociferous reception.
+
+Late that night we held an experience meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Snug in
+the Tower, and if I remember right there were a few tears that fell, and
+many apologies and good resolves, and as the true state of the case
+dawned on Mr. Snug there was an evident twinge of regret on his kind
+face.
+
+On the following morning (Saturday) there was a jolly party of youths
+leaving the Snuggery for a day’s boating at the lake. Dick Shin was
+among them; and just as he was passing out the gate, a youngster
+approaches him and taps him on the shoulder. “You are hereby arrested,
+sir, on the orders of Mr. Snug.”
+
+With an anxious and innocent expression Dick follows his juvenile
+constable into the Tower, and his companions stroll along after to
+ascertain the cause of the detention. We pass over the brief but amusing
+trial, in which the prisoner, with the innocence of a little lamb,
+pleaded his cause.
+
+“You _stumbled_, did you?” said Mr. Snug. “Well, you ought to know, sir,
+by this time that I don’t allow young men to stumble in that way in my
+house. These two boys have suffered through your admitted clumsiness.”
+Here Mr. Snug paused in a moment’s thought. “Dick Shin,” he continued,
+“I sent these innocent young gentlemen on two trips to Moody Barn--that
+makes four miles for Bigson and four miles for Harding, together making
+eight that they walked on your account. Now you may put down your
+fishing-pole, and ‘stumble’ along on the road to Judd’s Bridge, which
+will give you two extra miles in which to think over your sins. And to
+make sure”--here Mr. Snug arose and went to the closet--“you may take
+this hatchet along with you, and bring me back a good big chip from the
+end of the long bridge beam. I shall ride over that way to-morrow and
+see whether it fits. You understand?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” replied the injured voice of Dick Shin. “But, Mr. Snug,
+can’t I put off that penance until Monday?”
+
+“No, sir,” replied Mr. Snug, with a beaming smile and a bow of the head.
+“This is a lovely morning for contrite meditation. Go--_instantly_.”
+
+Two hours later saw a demonstrative individual threatening to chop down
+the whole side of a bridge, while ten miles to the northward the placid
+surface of Waramaug rippled to the oars, and the lofty mountain-sides
+echoed with the shouts of a merry holiday.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+But all things must have an end. The school-days ended, and so did this
+memorable vacation. A letter breaks the charm: insatiate publisher! Once
+more through the winding paths of the Housatonic, and I leave the
+loveliness of Hometown for the metropolis of brick and stone, there to
+resume the old routine.
+
+
+
+
+AUTUMN.
+
+[Illustration: THE WANING]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+I am sitting alone upon a wooded knoll at our old farm at Hometown.
+Above me a venerable oak holds aloft its dome of bronze-green verdure,
+and on either side the gnarled and knotty branches bend low, and trail
+their rustling leaves among the tufts of waving grass that fringe the
+slope around me.
+
+It is a spot endeared to me from earliest memory, a loved retreat whose
+every glimpse beneath the overhanging boughs has left its impress, whose
+every feature of undulating field, of wooded mountain, and winding
+meadow-brook I have long been able to summon up at will before my closed
+eyes, as though a mirror of the living picture now before me. And what
+is this picture?
+
+It is an enchanted vision of nature’s autumn loveliness--a vision of
+peace and tranquil resignation that lingers like a poem in the memory.
+It is a glorious October day, one of those rarest and loveliest of days
+when all nature seems transfigured, when a golden, misty veil swings
+from the heavens in a charmed haze, through which the commonest and most
+prosaic thing seems spiritualized and glorified. The summer’s full
+fruition is past and gone, the dross has been consumed; and in the
+lingering life, whose yielding flush now lends its sweet expression to
+the declining year, we see the type of perfect trust and hope that finds
+a fitting emblem in the dim horizon, where heaven and earth are wedded
+in a golden haze, where purple hills melt softly in the sky. It is a day
+when one may dream with open eyes, and whose day-dreams haunt the memory
+as sweet realities. The sky is filled with rolling, fleecy clouds, whose
+flat receding bases seem to float upon a transparent amber sea, from
+whose depths I look through into the blue air beyond.
+
+Below me an ancient orchard skirts the borders of the knoll. Its boughs
+are crimson studded, and the ground beneath is strewn with the bright
+red fruit. They mark the minutes as they fall, running the gauntlet of
+the craggy twigs and bounding upon the slope beneath. Beyond the orchard
+stretch the low, flat meadow lands, set with alders and swamp-maples,
+with swaying willows, now enclosing, now revealing the graceful curves
+of the quiet stream as it winds in and out among the overhanging
+foliage. Soon it is lost beneath a wooded hill, where an old square
+tower and factory-bell betray the hiding-place of the glassy pond that
+sends its splashing water-fall across the rocks beneath the old town
+bridge. Looking down upon this bridge, Mount Pisgah, with its rugged
+cliff, is seen rising bold and stern against the sky, above a broad and
+bright mosaic of elms and maples, spreading from the grove of oaks near
+by in an unbroken expanse, to the very foot of the precipice, with here
+and there a sunny cupola or gable peering out among the branches, or a
+snowy steeple lifting high its golden cross or weather-vane glittering
+in the sun. The mountain-side is lit up with its autumn glow of
+intermingled maples, oaks, and beeches, with its changeless ledges of
+jutting rock, and dense, defiant pines standing like veteran bearded
+sentinels in perpetual vigilance.
+
+All this comes to me in a single glimpse beneath the branches. But there
+are others, where undulating meadows, with their flowing lines of walls
+and fences, lead the eye through soft gradations to distant purple
+hills, through thrifty farms, with barns and barracks and rowen fields
+with browsing cattle, and ruddy buckwheat patches, where the flocks of
+village pigeons congregate among the cradle marks, in quest of scattered
+kernels shaken from the sheaves.
+
+There is a tiny lake near by that nestles among the hill-side farms,
+where sloping pastures and fields of yellow, rustling corn glide almost
+to the water’s edge. So sensitive and sympathetic is this little sheet
+of water that I christened it one day Chameleon Lake, for it wears a
+different expression for every phase of season or freak of weather, and
+always dwells in harmony with the landscape which encloses it. In cloudy
+days it frowns as cold as steel. In days of sunshine it is as bright and
+blue as the sky itself, or shimmers like a shield of burnished silver.
+And now it is a flood of autumn gold, carrying from shore to shore a
+maze of ripples laden with opaline reflections of intermingled glints
+from cloud and sky, and of the gold and ruby colored foliage along its
+banks.
+
+But this knoll and all these farms are not mine alone. They are such as
+I should hope might lurk in the memory of almost any one who looks back
+to early days among New England hills.
+
+[Illustration: AN OCTOBER DAY.]
+
+This old oak-tree, whose furrowed bark I lean upon, was a hardy
+patriarch when first I sought its shade. Its added years have scarcely
+changed a feature or modified a line in its old-time noble expression.
+As I look up, its great open arms spread out against the sky exactly as
+they did when I lolled beneath their shelter and watched the drifting
+clouds of twenty years ago sail through them in the blue above. Even the
+jagged furrows in the bark I seem to recognize. Here, too, is that same
+spreading scale of greenish lichen that fain will grow upon the trunk,
+as if I had not often picked it all to pieces in my early idling. The
+same round oak-gall rests on the bed of leaves in the hollow between the
+rocks near by, as though it had forgotten how a dozen years ago I
+cracked its polished shell and sent its spongy contents to the winds.
+
+And here comes that veritable ant creeping through the grass at my
+elbow--now on the root, now on the bark, exploring every crack and
+crevice in his hurried search. I wonder if the little fellow will ever
+find what he has been looking for so long. And here’s a friend of his
+coming down. They stop and wag their antennæ in a moment’s conversation.
+I wonder what they said. I always _did_ wonder when I watched them do
+the same thing on this very spot a score of years ago. The soft waving
+grass whispers about my ears as it did then, and I hear the low trumpet
+of the nuthatch as he creeps about in the tree o’erhead. Easily may one
+forget the lapse of time in such a place as this, where every leaf, and
+twig, and blade of grass conspire to breed forgetfulness of later years.
+Hark! that shrill tattoo again! The tree-toad. Yes, that same recluse in
+his mysterious hiding-place, seeking by his tantalizing trill to renew
+that game of hide-and-seek we left off so long ago--in those eager days
+when every stick and stone upon the knoll was overturned in my zeal to
+find his whereabouts. There he goes again! louder and more shrill. But
+now I realize the effect of time, for I only sit and listen to his
+oft-repeated call. Formerly that sound was like a galvanic thrill that
+electrified every nerve and muscle in my physiology. No, I’ll not hunt
+for you again, my musical young friend; besides, the odds would be
+against you now, for I know more about tree-toads than I once did, and
+you wouldn’t see me hunting on the ground as in the olden days. Besides,
+you’re getting bold; there is no need of hunting, for in that last toot
+you gave yourself away. Even now my eyes are fixed upon the hole in
+yonder hollow limb, and I see your tiny form clinging to the rotten wood
+within the opening. What _would_ I not have given _once_ to have thought
+of that soggy hole!
+
+[Illustration: A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL.]
+
+Near by a spreading yew monopolizes a rocky bit of ground, its foliage
+creeping above a silvery gray bed of branching moss, whose pillowy tufts
+spread almost to my feet. This was my fairy forest of tiny trees. Here I
+found the fairies’ cups and torches, and even now I can see their
+scarlet tips scattered here and there among the gray; and fragile little
+parasols, too--it were an insult, indeed, to designate such dainty
+things as these by the name of toadstools. Beyond this bed of moss a
+scrubby growth of whortleberry takes possession of the ground. The
+bushes are now bare of fruit, but ruddy with their autumn blushes,
+tingeing the surface of the knoll with a delicate coral pink. This
+thicket extends far down upon the slope, even encroaching upon the
+wheel-ruts of the lane, and across again, until cut short by an ancient
+tumbling line of lichen-covered stones, a landmark which has long since
+yielded up its claim as a barrier of protection to the old orchard it
+encloses, now only a moss-grown pile, with every chink and crevice a
+nestling-place of some searching tendril, fern, or clambering vine. For
+rods and rods it creeps along beneath the laden apple-trees, skirting
+the borders of this old farm lane, and finally hides away among a clump
+of cedars a few hundred feet away.
+
+Of all the picturesque in nature, what is there, after all, that so wins
+one’s deeper sympathies as the ever-changing pictures of a rustic lane
+or roadside, with its weather-beaten walls and fences, and their
+rambling growth of weeds and creeping vines? How sweet the sense of near
+companionship awakened by these charming way-side pastorals that
+accompany you in your saunterings, and reach out to touch you as you
+pass--a sense of friendly fellowship that breathes a silent greeting in
+the most deserted paths or loneliest of by-ways!
+
+Show me a ruined wall or a rutted zigzag fence, and I will show you a
+string of pearls, or rather, if in these later months, a fringe of gems,
+for the autumn fence is set in wreaths of rubies and glowing sapphires.
+Follow its rambling course, now through the field, now skirting swampy
+fallows, now by rustic lanes and cornfields and over rocky pastures, and
+you will follow a lead that will take you through the rarest bits of
+nature’s autumn landscape.
+
+Even in this lane, at the foot of the knoll below us, see the brilliant
+luxuriance of clustered bitter-sweet draping the side of that clump of
+cedars! It is only an indication of the beauty that envelops this lane
+for a full half mile beyond. Every angle of its rude rail fence encloses
+a lovely pastoral, each a surprise and a contrast to its neighbor.
+
+Right here before us, what a beginning! Hold up your hands on either
+side, and shut out the surroundings. Such is the glimpse I always long
+to paint from nature, and yet how almost maddening is the result! Rather
+would I drink it all in and fix its every feature in my mind, and paint
+it from its memory, when the presence of the living thing before me
+shall not mock my efforts and put to shame the crude creations of oil
+and pigment.
+
+See how the cool gray rails are relieved against that rich dark
+background of dense olive juniper, how they hide among the prickly
+foliage! Look at that low-hanging branch which so exquisitely conceals
+the lowest rail as it emerges from its other side, and spreads out among
+the creeping briers that wreathe the ground with their shining leaves
+of crimson and deep bronze! Could any art more daringly concentrate a
+rhapsody of color than nature has here done in bringing up that gorgeous
+spray of scarlet sumach, whose fern-like pinnate leaves are so richly
+massed against that background of dark evergreens? And even in that
+single branch see the wondrous gradation of color, from purest green to
+purplish olive, and olive melting into crimson, and then to scarlet, and
+through orange into yellow, and all sustaining in its midst the
+clustered cone of berries of rich maroon! Verily, it were almost an
+affront to sit down before such a shrine and attempt to match it in
+material pigment. A passing sketch, perhaps, that shall serve to aid the
+memory in the retirement of the studio, but a careful copy, _never!_
+until we can have a tenfold lease of life, and paint with sunbeams. But
+there is more still in this tantalizing ideal, for a luxuriant wild
+grape-vine, that shuts in the fence near by, sends toward us an
+adventurous branch that climbs the upright rail, and festoons itself
+from fence to tree, and hangs its luminous canopy over the crest of the
+yielding juniper. Even from where we stand we can see the pendant
+clusters of tiny grapes clearly shadowed against the translucent golden
+screen. Add to all this the charm of life and motion, with trembling
+leaves and branches bending in the breeze, with here and there a
+flitting shadow playing across the half hidden rails, and where can you
+find another such picture, its counterpart in beauty--where? perhaps its
+very neighbor, for all roadside pictures are “hung upon the line,” they
+are all by the same great Master, and it is often difficult to choose.
+
+Here we have a contrast. A dappled rock has taken possession of this
+little corner, or the corner has been built around it, if you choose--a
+“gray” rock we would call it in common parlance, but it is a gray
+composed of a checkered multitude of tints, colors which upon a rock, it
+would seem, were hardly worth an appreciative glance; but only let them
+be exhibited upon a fold of Lyons silk or Jouvin kid glove, and dignify
+them by the compliments of “ashes of roses,” or “London smoke,” and how
+eagerly they are sought, how exquisite they become. I speak in
+moderation when I say that I have often sat and counted as many as
+thirty just such tints upon the surface of a small “gray” rock, each
+_distinct_, and all so _refined_ and exquisite in shade. This rounded
+bowlder is no exception; and with its tufted spots of jetty moss, and
+outcroppings of glistening quartz, its rounded, spreading blots of
+greenish lichens, and mottled groundwork, it may well defy the craft of
+the most skilled palette. And when these grays are contrasted with
+tender yellow greens and browns of fading ferns, such as fringe the
+borders of the one before me, with a background of scarlet whortleberry
+bushes and deep-green sprays of blackberry clustering about the
+loosening bark of a crumbling stump, with its shelving growth of fungus
+hiding among its brown debris, one may well pause and wonder which to
+choose, or where a single touch is wanting in the perfect unity and
+harmony of either.
+
+[Illustration: WAIFS.]
+
+Another jutting corner, and we confront a swaying mass of gold and
+purple--that magnificent regal combination of graceful golden-rod and
+asters that glorifies our autumn from September to the falling leaf.
+There are a number of species of golden-rod, varying as much in their
+intensity of color as in their time of bloom. The earliest appear in the
+heart of summer, in wood and meadow; while others, larger and more
+stately, lift up in their midst their plumy, undeveloped tips, and wait
+until their predecessors are old and gray ere they roll out their
+wreaths of gold. For weeks the roads and by-ways have been lit up with
+their brilliant glow, that parting sunset gleam that lingers with the
+closing year. This splendid cluster is full six feet in height, and
+towers above the highest rail, or rather where the rail ought to be, for
+it is lost from sight beneath a dense fret-work of prickly smilax--and
+such brilliant, polished leaves! how they glitter in the sun! almost as
+though wet with dew.
+
+And to think how those prickly canes, denuded of their leaves, are sold
+upon our city thoroughfares as “Spanish rose-trees” to the unsuspecting
+passer-by! Those guileless venders, too! I remember one that sought to
+enrich my store of botanical knowledge by telling me they “bloomed in
+winter!” and had a flower as “big as a saucer,” and “kinder like a holy
+hawk!!!?” I looked him straight in the eye, but he was the picture of
+innocence. “Can you tell me the botanical name,” I asked. “Oh yes,” he
+glibly replied, “I think they call it the _Rubus epistaxis_.” Eheu! but
+this was _too much_, and he saw it, and with a wink of his foxy eye and
+a shrewd grin, he whispered along the palm of his hand, “Got to git a
+livin’ _somehow_, boss; now _don’t_ give me away.” “Here you are, lady,
+Spanish roses, lady, fresh from the steamer.” I never see a thicket of
+green-brier without thinking of its “winter blossom;” and, by-the-way,
+did you ever notice a thicket of this shrub, what a defiant, arbitrary
+tyrant it is--shutting out the very life-breath and light of day from
+its encumbered victims, monopolizing everything within its power, and
+even reaching out for more with searching tips in mid-air, and a couple
+of greedy tendrils at every leaf? And did you ever notice along the road
+that delicious whiff that comes to you every now and then, that pungent
+breath of the sweet-fern? We get it now; the air is laden with it from
+the dark-green beds across the road. The sweet-fern, as I remember it,
+was the simpler’s panacea and the small boy’s joy--an aromatic shrub,
+whose inhaled fumes, together with its corn-silk rival, seem destined by
+an all-wise Providence as a preparatory tonic to the more ambitious
+fumigation of after-years. Many a time have I sat upon this bank and
+tried to imagine in my domestic product the racy flavor of the famed
+Havana!
+
+Between old Aunt Huldy, with her mania for the simples, and the demand
+of the village boys, I wonder there is any of it left. But Aunt Huldy
+has long since died; all her “yarbs,” and “yarrer tea,” and “paowerful
+gud stimmilants” could not give her the lease of eternal earthly life
+which she said lurked in the “everlastin’ flaowers;” and after she had
+reached the age of one hundred and three, her tansy decoctions and
+boneset potions ceased in their efficacy--the feeble pulse grew feebler,
+and one winter’s eve, sitting in her rocker by her kettle and andirons,
+she fell into a deep sleep, from which she never awoke. Aunt Huldy was
+as strange and eccentric a character as one rarely meets in the walks of
+life. Some said she was crazy; others said she was a witch; but
+whatever she may have been, this aged dame was picturesque with her bent
+figure, her long white hair and scarlet hood. And who shall describe the
+ancient withered face that looked out from the shadow of that hood, the
+small gray eyes and heavy white eyebrows, the toothless jaws and
+receding lips, and massive chin that made its appalling ascent across
+the face? But I cannot describe that face: think of how a witch should
+look, and old Huldy’s features will rise up before you. She knew every
+herb that grew, but her great stand-by was “sweet-fern:” she smoked it,
+she chewed it, she drank it, and even wore a little bag of it around her
+neck, “to charm away the rheumatiz.”
+
+[Illustration: IN THE CORNFIELD.]
+
+Since her time, however, the sweet-fern has had a chance to recuperate,
+and, as far as we can see along the road, the banks are covered with it;
+and there’s a clump of teazles in its midst! I wonder if that old
+carding-mill still stands. You also, perhaps, will wonder what relation
+can exist between the two, that should make my thoughts jump half a
+mile at the sight of a roadside weed. But that old woollen-mill offered
+a premium on the extermination of one weed at least, for all the teasels
+of the neighborhood were required to keep its cloth brushes in thorough
+repair; but I fear its buzzing wheels are silent, for in olden times no
+such splendid clump as this could have remained to go to seed upon the
+highway. This old mill lies right upon our path, only a short walk down
+the road beyond. It nestles among a bower of willows in a picturesque
+ravine known as the “Devil’s Hollow”--an umbrageous, rocky glen, by far
+too cool and comfortable a place to justify the name it bears.
+
+Following the road, we now descend into a long, low stretch, hedged in
+between two tall banks of alder, overtopped with interwoven tangles of
+clematis, with its cloudy autumn clusters--that graceful vine which,
+like the dandelion, is even more beautiful in death than in the fulness
+of its bloom. And so, indeed, are nearly all those plants whose final
+state is thus endowed by nature with feathery wings to lift them from
+the earth.
+
+When has this swamp milk-weed by the roadside looked so fair as now,
+with its bursting pods and silky seeds--those little waifs thrown out
+upon the world with every passing breeze. How tenderly they seem to
+cling to the little cosy home where they have been so snugly cradled and
+protected; and see how they sail away, two or three together, loth to
+part, until some rude gust shall separate them forever.
+
+And here’s the great spiny thistle, too, that armed highwayman with
+florid face and pompon in his cap. But he has had his day, and now we
+see him old and seedy; his spears are broken, and his silvery gray hairs
+are floating everywhere and glistening in the sun.
+
+Now we leave the alders, and another roadside mosaic of rich color opens
+up before us, where the old half-wall fence, with its overtopping rails,
+is luminous with a crimson glow of ampelopsis. It covers all the stones
+for yards and yards; it swings from every jutting rail; it clambers up
+the tree trunks and envelops them in fire, and hangs its waving fringe
+from all the branches.
+
+Above the wall, like an encampment of thatched wigwams, the corn-shocks
+lift their heads; a prospecting colony encamped among a field rich with
+outcroppings of gold--a wealth of great round nuggets all in sight. And
+were we to tear away that thatch, we might see where they have stowed
+away their accumulated grains of wealth. We hear their rustling
+whispers: “Hush! hush!” they seem to say to each other as we approach;
+but their wariness is gratuitous, for a tell-tale vine is creeping away
+upon the fence near-by, and has stopped to rest its golden burden on the
+summit of the wall, half hiding among the scarlet creepers.
+
+Here yellow brakes abound, spreading their broad, triangular fronds on
+every side amid the brilliant berries of wild-rose, and pink leaves of
+blueberry. And here are thickets of black-alder, where every twig is
+studded with scarlet beads, that cling so close that even winter’s
+bluster cannot shake them off. No matter where we look in these October
+days, nature is burning itself away in a blaze of color that dazzles the
+eyes; and now we approach its very crowning touch.
+
+I wish every one might see this gorgeous combination of oak and maples;
+see it and go no farther, for a further search were fruitless in finding
+its equal. It is the pride of the entire community; towns-people and
+visitors ride from miles around to see its final flush--a magnificent
+climax in the way of concentration of vivid color, in which nature seems
+to have grouped with distinct purpose and design, producing a piece of
+natural landscape-gardening such as no art could have approached. The
+background is a massive precipice of rock towering to the height of
+eighty feet, itself a perfect medley of tone.
+
+The group is composed of eight maples, each a distinct contrast of pure
+color. In their midst a superb large oak presents one massive breadth of
+deep purple green; and spreading up one side like a flood of yellow
+light, a rock-maple lifts its splendid array of foliage. These two trees
+concentrate the effect, and the others are arranged around them like
+colors on a palette: one is a flaming scarlet, another beside it is
+always a rich green, even to the falling leaf--with only a single
+branch, that every year, even as early as August, persists in turning to
+a peculiar salmon pink; another, a red-maple, is so deep a red as to
+appear almost maroon, and its branches intermingle with the pale-pink
+verdure of another growing by its side. There is one that combines every
+intermediate color, from deep crimson to the palest saffron; while its
+neighbor flutters in the wind with every leaf a brilliant butterfly of
+pure green, with spots and splashes of deep carmine.
+
+This whole assemblage of color fairly blazes in the landscape, and even
+from the top of Mount Pisgah, a half a mile away, it looks like a
+glowing coal dropped down upon a bed of smouldering ashes in the valley;
+for the surrounding meadow is thick-set with great gray rocks and
+crimson viburnum, as though it had caught fire from the flaming trees.
+What other country can boast the glory of a tree which, taken all in
+all, can hold its own beside our lovely maple? From the time when first
+it hangs its silken tassels to the awakening spring breeze until its
+autumn fire has burned away its leaves, it presents an everchanging
+phase that lends a distinct expression to American landscape. It affords
+us grateful shade in summer; and with its trickling bounty in the spring
+we can all unite in a hearty toast, “A health to the glorious maple.”
+
+[Illustration: THE ROAD TO THE MILL.]
+
+But there is another tree which should not be forgotten, and if once
+seen in a New England autumn landscape there is little danger of its
+escaping from the memory. Of course, I refer to the pepperidge, or
+tupelo, that nondescript among trees; for who ever saw two
+pepperidge-trees alike? They seem to scorn a reputation for symmetry, or
+even the idea of establishing among themselves the recognition of a type
+of character. Novelty or grotesqueness is their only aim, and they hit
+the bull’s-eye every time. There is one I have in mind that has always
+been a perfect curiosity. Its height is fully seventy feet, and its
+crown is as flat as though cut off with a mammoth pair of
+pruning-shears. The central trunk runs straight up to the summit, from
+which it squirms off into six or seven snake-like branches, that dip
+downward and writhe among the other limbs, all falling in the same
+direction. One gets the impression, on looking at it, that originally
+it might have been a respectable-looking tree, but that in some rude
+storm in its early days it had been struck by lightning, torn up by the
+roots, and afterward had taken root at the top. The tupelo, whenever
+seen, is always one of our most picturesque trees, and a never-failing
+source of surprise, twisting and turning into some unheard-of shape, and
+seeming always to say, “There! beat that if you can!” Near the coast it
+assumes the form of a crazy Italian pine, with spindling trunk and
+massive head of foliage. Sometimes it divides in the middle, like an
+hour-glass, and again mimics a fir-tree in caricature; but he who would
+keep track of the acrobatic capers of the tupelo would have his hands
+full. Whatever its shape, however, its brilliant, glossy crimson foliage
+forms one of the most striking features of our October landscape.
+
+But I believe we were on the road to that carding-mill. We had almost
+forgotten it; and now, as we look ahead, we see the old lumber-shed that
+marks the upper ledge of Devil’s Hollow. From this old shed a
+trout-brook plunges through a series of rocky terraces, now winding
+among prostrate moss-grown trunks, now gurgling through the bare roots
+of great white birches, or spreading in a swift, glassy sheet as it
+pours across some broad shelving rock, and plunges from its edge in a
+filmy water-fall. It roars pent up in narrow cañons, and out again it
+swirls in a smooth basin worn in the solid rock. At almost every rod or
+two along its precipitous course there is a mill somewhere hid among the
+trees--queer, quaint little mills, some built up on high stone walls,
+others fed with trickling flumes which span from rock to rock,
+supporting on every beam a rounded cushion of velvety green moss, and
+hanging a fringe of ferns from almost every crevice. And one there is in
+ruins, fallen from its lofty perch, and piled in chaos in the stream.
+There are saw-mills, and shook-mills, and carding-mills, seven
+altogether in this one descent of about three hundred feet. The water
+enters the ravine as pure as crystal; but in its wild booming through
+race-ways, dams, and water-wheels, it gradually assumes a rich sienna
+hue from the _débris_ of sawdust everywhere along its course. The
+interior of the ravine is musical with the trebles of the falling water
+and the accompaniment of the rumbling mills. Tiny rainbows gleam beneath
+the water-falls, and swarms of glistening bubbles and little islands of
+saffron-colored foam float away upon the dark-brown eddies.
+
+At last we reach the carding-mill, which is the lowest of them all--in
+every sense, it seems, for it is as I had feared: the flume is but a
+pile of brown and mouldy timbers in the bed of the stream, and the old
+box-wheel has rotted and fallen from its spokes, almost obscured beneath
+a rank growth of weeds. No sound of buzzing teasels, no rumbling of the
+water-wheel, no happy carder singing at his work: _nothing_--but a
+couple of boys, kneeling in a corner, sucking cider through a straw.
+Yes, the old mill has fallen from grace; but what else might one expect
+from a mill in “Devil’s Hollow,” where all its neighbors are engaged in
+making hogshead staves, and the very water has turned to ruddy wine?
+
+[Illustration: THE CIDER MILL.]
+
+The carding-machine is gone, and has given place to a rustic
+cider-press. A temporary undershot-wheel has been rigged beneath the
+floor, and a rude trough, patched up with sods, conducts the water from
+the stream.
+
+It is the same old cider-press we all remember, and with the same
+accessories. Here are casks of all sizes waiting to be filled, and the
+piles of party-colored apples spilled upon the floor from the farmers’
+wagons that every now and then back up to the open door. There is the
+same rustic harangue on leading agricultural topics, among which we hear
+a variety of opinions about that imaginary “line storm.”
+
+“Seems to gi’n the slip this year,” remarks one old long-limbed settler
+with a slope-roofed straw hat, “’n’ I don’t know zactly what to _make_
+on’t; but I ain’t so sartin nuther”--he now takes a wise observation of
+a small patch of blue sky through the trees overhead. “I cal’late we’ll
+git a leetle tetch on’t yit.”
+
+“Likenuff, likenuff,” responds another, with a squeaky voice; “the ar’s
+gittin’ ruther dampish, ’n’ my woman hez got the rheumatiz ag’in. She
+kin alluz tell when we’re goin’ to git a spell o’ weather; it’s sure to
+fetch her all along her spine. But I lay _most_ store on them ar pesky
+tree-tuds. I heern um singin’ like all possessed ez I wuz comin’ through
+the woods yender; ’n’ it’s a sartin sign o’ rain when them ar critters
+gits agoin’, you kin depend on’t.”
+
+And now we hear all about the pumpkin and the corn crop, the potato
+yield, and the regular list of other subjects so dear to the rural
+heart.
+
+In a corner by themselves we see the pile of “vinegar nubbins”--a tanned
+and soft variety of apple--in all stages of variegation. The “hopper”
+receives the shovelfuls of fruit for the crushing “smasher,” which again
+supplies the straw-laid press. We hear the creaking turn of the lever
+screw, the yielding of the timbers, and a fresh burst of the trickling
+beverage flowing from the surrounding trough into the great wooden tub
+below. Here, too, is the swarm of eager urchins, with heads together,
+like a troop of flies around a grain of sugar. Ah! what unalloyed bliss
+is reflected from their countenances as they absorb the amber nectar
+through the intermediate straw--that golden link that I have missed for
+many a year!
+
+Outside upon the logs the refuse “pumice-cheese” has brought together
+all the yellow-jackets and late butterflies of the neighborhood--butterflies
+so tipsy that you can pick them up between your fingers. I never went so
+far with the yellow-jackets, for they have a hotter temper, and don’t
+like to be fooled with. Black hornets, too, are here, and they find a
+feast spread at their very door; for overhead, upon the beech, they
+have hung their paper house, like a gray balloon caught among the
+branches.
+
+[Illustration: “THE LINE STORM.”]
+
+Now we hear a chatter and a scratching on the roof, where a pair of
+lively squirrels hold a game of tag; and ascending the rickety stairs
+into the loft above, we find the floor strewn with hickory-nuts, with
+neat round holes cut through on either side, and numberless shaggy
+butternuts, too, with daylight let into their recesses also. The boards
+and beams are covered with cobweb trimmings, laden with wool-dust; and
+as we approach a pile of rusty iron near the murky window, we hear a
+scraping of sharp claws, the dropping of a nut between the rafters, and
+now a wild scampering on the roof overhead. Before we have fairly
+recovered from our surprise, we notice a sudden darkening of a hole in
+the shingles close by, where, still and motionless, two inquisitive
+black eyes look down at us. We have intruded upon private property, for
+this is the home of the squirrels. No one can dispute their title, for
+these little squatters have occupied the premises and held the fort for
+nearly twenty years.
+
+They, too, have found forage close at hand, from the nut-grove upon the
+hill-side yonder--a yellow bank of foliage of clustered hickories and
+beeches, and rounded domes of chestnuts--a grove whose every rock and
+bush is my old-time friend; where there are “sermons in stones,” and
+every tree speaks volumes.
+
+Here is the low thicket of weeds and hazel-bushes where we always
+flushed that flock of quail, or started up some lively white-tailed hare
+that jumped away among the quivering brakes and golden-rod. Here are
+soft beds of rich green moss, studded with scarlet berries of
+winter-green and partridge-vine. Now we come upon a creeping mat of
+princess-pine, and here among the leaves we had almost stepped upon a
+spreading chestnut-burr--that same burr I have so often seen before,
+that same fuzzy, open palm holding out its tempting bait to lure the
+eagerness of youth; an eagerness which always invested a neighbor’s
+chestnuts with a peculiar charm too tempting to resist; “take one,” it
+seems to say, as it did in years ago; and its hedge of thorny prickles
+truly typifies the dangers which surrounded such an undertaking, for
+these trees belong to Deacon Turney, and he prizes them as though their
+yellow autumn leaves were so much gold. He guards them with an eagle’s
+eye, and he gathers all their harvest; no single nut is ever known to
+sprout in Turney’s woods if _he_ knows it.
+
+This pointed reminder among the leaves fairly pricks my conscience as I
+recall the many October escapades in which it formed the chief
+attraction. I remember one occasion in particular, for it is indelibly
+impressed on my memory, and it was on this very spot. A party of
+adventurous lads, myself among the number, were out for a glorious
+holiday. Each had his canvas bag across his shoulder, and we stole along
+the stone wall yonder, and entered the woods beneath that group of
+chestnuts. Two of us acted as outposts on picket guard; and another,
+young Teddy Shoopegg by name, the best climber in the village, did the
+shaking. He prided himself on being able to “shin up any tree in the
+caounty,” and after he had once got up among those chestnut-trees we
+stood from under, and in a very short space of time no single burr was
+left among their branches. There were five busy pairs of hands beneath
+those trees, I can tell you, for each one of us fully realized the
+necessity of making the most of his time, not knowing how soon the
+warning cry from our outposts might put us all to headlong flight; for
+the alarm, “Turney’s coming!” was enough to lift the hair of any boy in
+town.
+
+[Illustration: A POINTED REMINDER.]
+
+But luck seemed to favor us on that day; we “cleaned out” six big
+chestnut-trees, and then turned our attention to the hickories. There
+was a splendid tall shagbark close by, with branches fairly loaded with
+the white nuts in their open shucks. They were all ready to drop, and
+when the shaking once commenced, the nuts came down like a shower of
+hail, bounding from the rocks, rattling among the dry leaves, and
+keeping up a clatter all around. We scrambled on all fours, and gathered
+them by quarts and quarts. There was no need of poking over the leaves
+for them, the ground was covered with them in plain sight. While busily
+engaged, we noticed an ominous lull among the branches overhead.
+
+“’Sst! ’sst!” whispered Shoopegg up above; “I see old Turney on his
+white horse daown the road yender.”
+
+“Coming this way?” also in a whisper, from below.
+
+“I dunno yit, but I jest guess you’d better be gittin’ reddy to leg it,
+fer he’s hitchin’ his old nag ’t the side o’ the road. _Yis_, sir, I
+bleeve he’s a-cummin’. Shoopegg, you’d better be gittin’ aout o’ this,”
+and he commenced to drop hap-hazard from his lofty perch. In a moment,
+however, he seemed to change his mind, and paused, once more upon the
+watch. “Say, fellers,” he again broke in, as we were preparing for a
+retreat, “he’s gone off to’rd the cedars; he ain’t cummin’ this way at
+_all_.” So he again ascended into the tree-top, and finished his shaking
+in peace, and we our picking also. There was still another tree, with
+elegant large nuts, that we had all concluded to “finish up on.” It
+would not do to leave it. They were the largest and thinnest-shelled
+nuts in town, and there were over a bushel in sight on the branch tips.
+Shoopegg was up among them in two minutes, and they were showered down
+in torrents as before. And what splendid, perfect nuts they were! We
+bagged them with eager hands, picked the ground all clean, and, with
+jolly chuckles at our luck, were just about thinking of starting for
+home with our well-rounded sacks, when a change came over the spirit of
+our dreams. There was a suspicious noise in the shrubbery near by, and
+in a moment more we heard our doom.
+
+“Jest yeu look _ee_ah, yeu boys!” exclaimed a high-pitched voice from
+the neighboring shrubbery, accompanied by the form of Deacon Turney,
+approaching at a brisk pace, hardly thirty feet away. “Don’t yeu think
+yeu’ve got jest abaout _enuff_ o’ them nuts?”
+
+Of course a wild panic ensued, in which we made for the bags and dear
+life; but Turney was prepared and ready for the emergency, and, raising
+a huge old shot-gun, he levelled it, and yelled, “Don’t any on ye stir
+ner move, or by Christopher I’ll blow the heels clean off’n the hull
+_pile_ on ye. I’d _shoot_ ye quicker’n _lightni’_.”
+
+And we believed him, for his aim was true, and his whole expression was
+not that of a man who was trifling. I never shall forget the
+uncomfortable sensation that I experienced as I looked into the muzzle
+of that double-barrelled shot-gun, and saw both hammers fully raised
+too. And I can clearly see now the squint and the glaring eye that
+glanced along those barrels. There was a wonderfully persuasive power
+lurking in those horizontal tubes; so I at once hastened to inform the
+deacon that we were “not going to run.”
+
+“Wa’al,” he drawled, “it looked a leetle thet _way_, I thort, a spell
+_ago_;” and he still kept us in the field of his weapon, till at length
+I exclaimed, in desperation.
+
+“For gracious sake! point that gun in some other _way_, will you?”
+
+“Wa’al, _no_! I’m not fer pintin’ it ennywhar else jest _yit_--not until
+you’ve sot them ar _bags_ daown agin, jist whar ye _got_ ’em, every
+_one_ on ye.” The bags were speedily replaced, and he slowly lowered his
+gun.
+
+[Illustration: AFTER THE SHELL-BARKS]
+
+“Wa’al, naow,” he continued, as he came up in our midst, “this is putty
+bizniss, _ain’t_ it? Bin havin’ a putty likely sort o’ time teu, I sh’d
+jedge from the looks o’ these ’ere _bags_. One--two--_six_ on ’em; an’ I
+vaow they must be nigh on teu a half bushel in every pleggy _one_ on
+’em. Wa’al, naow”--with his peculiar drawl--“look eeah: you’re a putty
+ondustrious lot o’ _thieves_, I’m _blest_ if ye ain’t.” But the deacon
+did all the talking, for his manœuvres were such as to render us
+speechless. “Putty likely place teu cum a-nuttin’, ain’t it?” Pause.
+“Putty nice mess o’ shell-barks ye got thar, I tell ye naow.--Quite a
+sight o’ _chestnuts_ in _yourn_, ain’t they?”
+
+There was only one spoken side to this dialogue, but the pauses were
+eloquent on both sides, and we boys kept up a deal of tall thinking as
+we watched the deacon alternate his glib remarks by the gradual removal
+of the bags to the foot of a neighboring tree. This done, he seated
+himself upon a rock beside them.
+
+“_Thar!_” he exclaimed, removing his tall hat and wiping his
+white-fringed forehead with a red bandanna handkerchief. “I’m much
+_obleeged_. I’ve been a-watchin’ on ye gittin’ these ’ere nuts the hull
+arternoon. I thort ez haow yeu might like to know on’t.” And then, as
+though a happy thought had struck him, what should he do but
+deliberately spit on his hands and grasp his gun. “Look _ee_ah”--a
+pause, in which he cocked both barrels--“yeu boys wuz paowerful anxyis
+teu git _away_ from _ee_ah a spell ago. Naow yeu kin _git_ ez lively ez
+yeu pleze; your chores is done fer to-day.” And bang! went one of the
+gun-barrels directly over our heads.
+
+We _got_, and when once out of gun-range we paid the deacon a wealth of
+those rare compliments for both eye and ear that always swell the boys’
+vocabulary.
+
+“All right,” he yelled back in answer, as he transported the bags across
+the field. “Cum agin next year--cum agin. Alluz welcome! alluz welcome!”
+
+As I have already said, the deacon gathered all his nut
+harvest--sometimes by a very novel method.
+
+Who does not remember some such episode of the old jolly days? If it was
+not a Deacon Turney, it was some one else. I am sure his counterpart
+exists in every country town, and in the memory of every boyhood
+experience.
+
+We remember, perhaps, the sweet hazel-nuts which we gathered in their
+brown husks and spread to dry upon the garret floor, and how those
+mischievous mice avenged the deacon’s wrongs as they invaded our
+treasured store, and transported it to the nooks and kinks among the
+rafters and beneath the floor. Then there were those rambles after
+“fox-grapes,” and the “gunning” tramps, when we stole with cautious step
+upon the unseen “Bob White” whistling for us among the brush near by,
+when the startling _whirr_ of the ruffed grouse from almost under our
+feet sent an electric thrill up our backs and along our arms, even
+touching off the powder in our barrels unawares. There were box-traps in
+the woods, and snares among the copses, and lots of other mischief of
+which we would not care to tell.
+
+[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE FARM.]
+
+There was another little three-cornered nut that fell among the
+beech-trees where we held our October picnics, and the autumn beech
+forest I remember as a lovely woodland parlor. We sit upon a painted
+rock, in the shadow of a drooping hemlock, perhaps. Beyond, we look
+across among the smooth gray tree-trunks, where sidelong shadows softly
+stripe the matted leaves, with here and there a shining shaft of sunbeam
+lighting up the carpet, or a glinting spray of sun-tipped leaves that
+flicker above their shadows. The woods are filled with a luminous glow
+such as no summer forest ever knew--an all-pervading light which seems
+almost independent of the sunshine, as though living in the leaf itself.
+It floods the mottled bark, and transforms its ashy tints to softened
+autumn grays. It searches out the shadows of the evergreens, and throws
+its mellow glow upon the rocks among their recesses. It permeates the
+whole interior as though it were transfigured through a golden-colored
+glass.
+
+A quick, sharp whistle surprises you from the herbage near by, and a
+striped chickaree skips across the leaves and dives into his burrow at
+the foot of an old stump not far away. There are various other sounds
+that come to you if you sit quietly in a beech wood. Now it is a tiny
+footfall, a pat-pat upon the leaves, and a little brown bird is seen,
+hopping in and out among the undergrowth, scratching and pecking like a
+little hen among the leaf mould. Then comes a galloping sound, and you
+know there is a scampering hare somewhere about. And at last a peeping
+frog gains confidence, and starts up a trill somewhere behind you. He is
+soon joined by another, and still others, until a chorus of the shrill
+voices echoes among the trees, some from the around, some from the limbs
+overhead; and if you only sit perfectly still, you may hear a
+venturesome voice, perhaps, at your very elbow; for these little peepers
+are capricious songsters, and only sing before a quiet, attentive
+audience. Now a silly green katydid flits by, like an animated gauzy
+leaf; and quick as thought a kingbird darts out from the leaves
+overhead, hovers in mid-air for a second, and is away again; and
+luckless katydid wishes she _hadn’t_.
+
+See the variety of beeches, too! Here are slender, dappled stems, clean
+and trim; and others, great giants with fluted trunks and gnarled roots,
+and with eccentric limbs reaching out in most fantastic angles; but all
+spreading above in a graceful, airy screen of intermingled tracery and
+sunlight, where slender branches bend and sway beneath the agile
+squirrel as he leaps from tree to tree, and the leaves clatter with the
+falling nuts. Behind us a soft fluttering of many wings betrays a
+slender mountain-ash, with its drooping clusters of berries, growing in
+an open, rocky space near by--where a flock of cedar birds assemble
+among the fruit, or scatter away amid the evergreens at your slightest
+movement. Turning your head in another direction, you can follow the
+course of an old farm-road that leads out upon a bright clearing,
+thick-set with light-green, feathery ferns. A few rods beyond, it makes
+a sudden downward turn through a dense grove of lofty pines and
+hemlocks. Here are “dim aisles” where dwell perpetual twilight--where no
+ray of sun has entered for well-nigh a century--only, perhaps, as it is
+brought down in a glistening sunbeam within the crystal bead of balsam
+upon some dropping cone. There is a solemn stillness in these stately
+halls, in which your very footfall is proscribed and hushed in the
+depths of the brown and silent carpet. There are old, venerable
+gray-beards here, and fallen monarchs lying prostrate among the rugged
+rocks; and here and there among the brown debris a fungus lifts its
+head, to tell of other generations that lie crumbling beneath the mould.
+Now among the lofty columns, like a magnificent illuminated window in
+some vast cathedral, comes a glimpse of the outer world with its autumn
+colors; and here the vaulted aisle soon leads us. We find a dazzling
+contrast; for in the sombre shadows of the pine-forest one readily
+forgets the month, or even the season. Here we approach a rippling
+trout-stream, and as we stop to rest upon its tottering bridge we look
+across a long brook meadow, where the asters screen the ground in
+mid-air in a purple sea--one of the rarest spectacles of autumn. But in
+this swamp lot there are presented a continual series of just such rich
+displays from spring-time till the winter.
+
+I know of no other place in which the progress of the year is so readily
+traced as in these swampy fallow lands. They are a living calendar, not
+merely of the seasons alone, but of every month successively; and its
+record is almost unmistakably disclosed. It is whispered in the fragrant
+breath of flowers, and of the aromatic herbage you crush beneath your
+feet. It floats about on filmy wings of dragon-fly and butterfly, or
+glistens in the air on silky seeds. It skips upon the surface of the
+water, or swims among the weeds beneath; and is noised about in myriads
+of tell-tale songs among the reeds and sedges. The swallows and the
+starlings proclaim it in their flight, and the very absence of these
+living features is as eloquent as life itself. Even in the simple story
+of the leaf, the bud, the blossom, and the downy seed, it is told as
+plainly as though written in prosaic words and strewn among the herbage.
+
+In the early, blustering days of March, there is a stir beneath the
+thawing ground, and the swamp cabbage-root sends up a well protected
+scout to explore among the bogs; but so dismal are the tidings which he
+brings, that for weeks no other venturing sprout dares lift its head. He
+braves alone the stormy month--the solitary sign of spring, save,
+perhaps, the lengthening of the alder catkins that loosen in the wind.
+April woos the yellow cowslips into bloom along the water’s edge, and
+the golden willow twigs shake out their perfumed tassels. In May the
+prickly carex blossoms among the tussocks, and the calamus buds burst
+forth among their flat, green blades. June is heralded on right and left
+by the unfurling of blue-flags, and the eyebright blue winks and blinks
+as it awakens in the dazzling July sun.
+
+[Illustration: BEECH-NUTTING.]
+
+Then follows brimful August, with the summer’s consummation of
+luxuriance and bloom; with flowers in dense profusion in bouquets of
+iron-weed and thoroughworts, of cardinal flowers and fragrant clethra,
+with their host of blossoming companions. The milk-weed pods fray out
+their early floss upon September breezes, and the blue petals of the
+gentian first unfold their fringes. October overwhelms us with the
+friendly tokens of burr marigolds and bidens; while its thickets of
+black-alder lose their autumn verdure, and leave November with a
+“burning bush” of scarlet berries hitherto half-hidden in the leafage.
+Now, too, the copses of witch-hazel bedeck themselves, and are yellow
+with their tiny ribbons. December’s name is written in wreaths of snow
+upon the withered stalks of slender weeds and rushes, which soon lie
+bent and broken in the lap of January, crushed beneath their winter
+weight. And in fulfilment of the cycle, February sees the swelling buds
+of willow, with their restless pussies eager for the spring, half
+creeping from their winter cells.
+
+The October day is a dream, bright and beautiful as the rainbow, and as
+brief and fugitive. The same clouds and the same sun may be with us on
+the morrow, but the rainbow will have gone. There is a destroyer that
+goes abroad by night; he fastens upon every leaf, and freezes out its
+last drop of life, and leaves it on the parent stem, pale, withered, and
+dying.
+
+Then come those closing days of dissolution, the saddest of the year,
+when all nature is filled with phantoms, and the gaunt and naked trees
+moan in the wind--every leaf a mockery, every breeze a sigh. The air
+seems weighed with a premonition of the dreariness to come. The
+landscape is darkened in a melancholy monotone, and death is written
+everywhere. You may walk the woods and fields for hours without a gleam
+of comfort or a cheering sound. We hear, perhaps, the hollow roll of the
+woodpecker upon some neighboring tree; but even he is clad in mourning:
+it is a muffled drum, and the resounding limb is dead. You sit beneath
+the old oak-tree, but it is a lifeless rustle that grates upon your ear,
+while you listen half beseechingly for some cheering note from the
+robins in the thicket near; but they are coy and silent now, and their
+flight is toward the southern hills. A villanous shrike must needs come
+upon the scene: he alights upon a limb near by, with blood upon his
+beak. Murder is in his eye, and his mission here is death. And now we
+hear a noisy crow o’erhead: he perches upon a neighboring tree in hungry
+scrutiny. And what is he but carrion’s bird, that revels in decay and
+death, with raiment black as a funeral pall? In the cold gray sky we see
+their scattered flocks blowing in the wind with sidelong flight, and in
+the field below that mocking cadaver, the man of straw, shaking his
+flimsy arms at them in wild contortions.
+
+[Illustration: THE NORTH WIND.]
+
+There is a hopeless despondency abroad in all the air, in which the
+summer medleys of the birds taunt us with their memories. We yearn for
+one such joyful sound to break the gloomy reverie. But what bird could
+swell his throat in song amidst such cheerlessness? No, Nature does not
+thus defeat her purpose. The hopefulness of Spring, the joyful
+consummation of Summer, have fled; their mission is fulfilled, and these
+are days for meditation on the past and future. All nature speaks of
+death; and there are voices of despair, and others eloquent with hope
+and trust. There are dead leaves that crumble into dust beneath our
+feet; but, if we look higher, there are others that conceal the promise
+of eternal life, where the undeveloped being, that perfect symbol,
+weaves his silken shroud, and awaits the coming of his day of full
+perfection. In the ground beneath he seeks his sepulchre, and he knows
+that at the appointed time he will burst his cerements and fly away.
+These are inobtrusive, silent testimonies; but they are here, and need
+only to be sought to unfold their prophecies.
+
+But there comes a respite even in these late gloomy days. There is a
+lull in the work of devastation, in which the sunny skies and magic haze
+of October come back to us in the charming dreaminess of the Indian
+summer. A brief farewell--perhaps a day, perhaps a week; but however
+long, it is a parting smile that we love to recall in the dreariness
+that follows. The sky is luminous with soft sun-lit clouds, and the hazy
+air is laden with spring-like breezes, with now and then a welcome
+cricket-song or light-hearted bird-note, for, although long upon their
+way, the birds have not yet all departed. They twitter cheerily among
+the trees and thickets, and should you listen quietly you perhaps might
+hear an echo of spring again in the warble of the robin upon the
+dog-wood-tree. Here they have loitered by the way among the scarlet
+berries. Not only robins, but cedar-birds and thrushes are here, in
+successive flocks, from morn till night.
+
+The fields are dull with faded golden-rods and asters, among whose downy
+seeds the frolicking chickadees and snow-birds hold a jubilee. The maze
+of twigs and branches in the distant hills has enveloped them in a smoky
+gray, and the sound of rustling leaves follows your footsteps in your
+woodland rambles. The fringe of yellow petals is unfolding on the
+witch-hazel boughs, and if you only knew the place, you might discover
+in some forsaken nook a solitary pale-blue lamp of fringed gentian still
+flickering among the withered leaves. Now a lively twittering and a hum
+of wings surprises you, and before you can turn your head a happy little
+troop of birds sweep across your path, and are away among the
+evergreens. They are white buntings, and their presence here is like a
+chill, for they come from the icy regions of the North, and they bring
+the snow upon their wings. The Indian summer is soon a thing of the
+past. Perhaps before another daybreak it will have flown. There is no
+dawn upon that morning. The night runs into a day of dismal, cheerless
+twilight, and the sky is overcast with ominous darkness. That angry
+cloud that left us, driven away before the conquering Spring, now lowers
+above the northward mountain; we see its livid face and feel its
+blighting breath--“a hard, dull bitterness of cold,” that sweeps along
+the moor in noisy triumph, that howls and tears among the trembling
+trees, and smothers out the last smouldering flame of faded Autumn.
+
+The final leaf is torn from the tree. The lingering birds depart the
+desolation for scenes more tranquil, and I too with them, for nothing
+here invites my tarrying. The Autumn days are gone, grim Winter is at
+our door, and the covering snow will soon enshroud the earth, subdued
+and silent in its winter sleep.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+WINTER.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: THE SLEEP]
+
+[Illustration: A WINTER IDYL
+
+Prologue
+
+    A chill sad ending of a dreary day.
+      The waning light in stillness dies away.
+    Bequeaths no ray of hope the void to fill
+      But lends to gloomy thoughts more sadness still.
+    All nature hushed beneath a snowy shroud
+      Darkness and death their sovereign rule decree
+    O, reign of dread, of cruel blasts that kill
+      Thy cycle brings a heavy heart to me.
+    How many thus their Winter’s advent view
+      Whose darkened faith no daylight ever knew.
+    Alas for him who thinks the grave his doom
+      Or sees the sun go down behind the tomb.
+    “Seek and ye shall find”. On every hand
+      Mute prophecies their mission tell.
+    Yield but a listening ear and they shall say
+      ‘The dead but sleep, they do not pass away’
+    Else why mid earth and heaven on yonder tree
+      That type of life in death, the living tomb?
+    Why the imago from dark cerements free
+      Winging its upward flight from earthly gloom?
+    Why this device supreme unless a prophecy
+      Of resurrected life and immortality.
+    Oh thou whose downcast eyes refuse to seek
+      See! even at the grave the sign is given.
+    The snow-clad evergreen, eternal life
+      Clothed in celestial purity from heaven.
+    Even thus life’s Winter should be blest
+      Not dark and dead but full of peace and rest.
+]
+
+
+Silently, like thoughts that come and go, the snow-flakes fall, each one
+a gem. The whitened air conceals all earthly trace, and leaves to
+memory the space to fill. I look upon a blank, whereon my fancy paints,
+as could no hand of mine, the pictures and the poems of a boyhood life;
+and even as the undertone of a painting, be it warm or cool, shall
+modify or change the color laid upon it, so this cold and frosty
+background through the window transfigures all my thoughts, and forms
+them into winter memories legion like the snow. Oh that I could
+translate for other eyes the winter idyl painted there! I see a living
+past whose counterpart I well could wish might be a common fortune. I
+see in all its joyous phases the gladsome winter in New England, the
+snow-clad hills with bare and shivering trees, the homestead dear, the
+old gray barn hemmed in with peaked drifts. I see the skating-pond, and
+hear the ringing, intermingled shouts of the noisy, shuffling game, the
+black ice written full with testimony of the winter’s brisk hilarity.
+Down the hard-packed road with glancing sled I speed, past frightened
+team and startled way-side groups; o’er “thank you, marms,” I fly in
+clear mid-air, and crouching low, with sidelong spurts of snowy spray, I
+sweep the sliding curve. Now past the village church and cosy parsonage.
+Now scudding close beneath the hemlocks, hanging low with their piled
+and tufted weight of snow. The way-side bits like dizzy streaks whiz by,
+the old rail fence becomes a quivering tint of gray. The road-side weeds
+bow after me, and in the swirling eddy chasing close upon my feet, sway
+to and fro. Soon, like an arrow from the bow, I shoot across the “Town
+Brook” bridge, and, jumping out beyond, skip the sinking ground, and
+with an anxious eye and careful poise I “trim the ship,” and, hoping,
+leave the rest to fate.
+
+Perhaps I land on both runners, perhaps I don’t; that depends. I’ve
+tried both ways I know, and if I remember rightly, I always found it
+royal jolly fun; for what cared I at a bruise, or a pint of snow down my
+back, when I got it there myself?
+
+The average New England boy is hard to kill, and I was one of that kind.
+Any boy who could brave the hidden mysteries and capricious favoritism
+of those fifteen dislocating “thank you, marms,” and _hang together_
+through it all, and, having so done, finish that experience with a
+plunging double somersault into a crusted snow-bank, or, perchance, into
+a stone wall--if he can do this, I say, and survive the fun, then there
+is no reason why he should not live to tell of it in old age, for never
+in the flesh will he go through a rougher ordeal. I’ve known a boy who
+“_hated_ the old district school because the hard benches hurt him so,”
+and who would rest his aching limbs for hours together in this gentle
+sort of exercise. “The fine print made his eyes ache, and he couldn’t
+study;” and yet when one day he comes home with one eye all colors of
+the rainbow, “it’s _nothing_.” “Consistency is a jewel.” Boys don’t
+generally wear jewels. But they are all alike. Boys will be boys, and if
+they only live through it, they will some day look back and wonder at
+their good fortune.
+
+At the foot of that long hill the “Town Brook” gurgles on its winding
+way, and passing beneath the weather-beaten bridge, it makes a sudden
+turn, and spreads into a glassy pond behind the bulwarks of the saw-mill
+dam. In summer, were we as near as this, we would hear the intermittent
+ring of the whizzing saw, the clanking cogs, and the tuneful sounds of
+the falling bark-bound slabs; but now, like its bare willows that were
+wont to wave their leafy boughs with caressing touch upon the mossy
+roof, the old mill shows no sign of life. Its pulse is frozen, and the
+silent wheel is resting from its labors beneath a coverlet of snow. Who
+is there who has not in some recess of the memory a dear old haunt like
+this, some such sleeping pond radiant with reflections of the scenes of
+early life? Thither in those winter days we came, our numbers swelled
+from right and left with eager volunteers for the game, till at last,
+almost a hundred strong, we rally on the smooth black ice.
+
+[Illustration: SNOW-FLAKES OF MEMORY.]
+
+The opposing leaders choose their sides, and with loud hurrahs we
+penetrate the thickets at the water’s edge, each to cut his special
+choice of stick--that festive cudgel, with curved and club-shaped end,
+known to the boy as a “shinney-stick,” but to the calm recollection of
+after-life principally as an instrument of torture, indiscriminately
+promiscuous in its playful moments. Were I to swing one of those dainty
+little clubs again, I would rather that the end were tied up in
+something soft, and that this should be the universal rule; otherwise I
+don’t think I would play. I would prefer to sit on the bank and watch
+the sport, or make myself useful in looking after the dead and wounded.
+But to the “average New England boy” it makes a great deal of difference
+who swings the club, and what it is swung for. If it is whirled in
+_play_, and takes him with a blow that _ought_ to kill him, and _would_
+if he were not a boy, why then he laughs, and thinks it’s good fun, and
+goes in and gets another. But if the parental guardian has any reason to
+swing a stick even one-tenth the size, the whole neighborhood thinks
+there is a boy being murdered. So much depends upon a name sometimes.
+
+[Illustration: THE OLD MILL-POND.]
+
+How clearly and distinctly I recall those toughening, rollicking sports
+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.
+
+Was ever perfume sweeter than that all-pervading fragrance of the
+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
+
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diff --git a/old/41278-0.zip b/old/41278-0.zip
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pastoral Days, by William Hamilton Gibson
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license
+
+
+Title: Pastoral Days
+       or Memories of a New England Year
+
+Author: William Hamilton Gibson
+
+Release Date: November 3, 2012 [EBook #41278]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTORAL DAYS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+PASTORAL DAYS
+
+
+
+
+PASTORAL DAYS
+OR
+MEMORIES OF A NEW ENGLAND YEAR
+
+BY
+
+W. HAMILTON GIBSON
+
+Illustrated
+
+NEW YORK
+
+HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
+
+1881
+
+Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by
+
+HARPER & BROTHERS,
+
+In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
+
+_All rights reserved._
+
+
+TO
+
+ONE WHOSE CLOSE COMPANIONSHIP
+
+HAS WROUGHT THAT HARMONY AND PEACE OF MIND FROM WHICH THIS
+BOOK HAS SPRUNG, AND TO WHOM ITS EVERY PAGE RECALLS
+A REMINISCENCE OF THE PAST IDENTIFIED
+WITH MEMORIES OF MY OWN
+
+This Memoir is Lovingly Inscribed
+
+OUR SOUVENIR
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE CYCLE.
+
+
+SPRING:           PAGE
+
+_The Awakening_.....19
+
+SUMMER:
+
+_The Consummation_.....51
+
+AUTUMN:
+
+_The Waning_.....91
+
+WINTER:
+
+_The Sleep_.....125
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS.
+
+DESIGNED BY W. HAMILTON GIBSON.
+
+
+TITLE.                        ENGRAVER.....PAGE
+
+THE KINDLED FLAME             W. H. CLARK.....18
+
+THE AWAKENING                 H. GRAY.....19
+
+A SPRING MORNING              F. S. KING.....21
+
+CATKINS                       JOHN FILMER.....23
+
+PUSSIES                         "      ".....23
+
+EARLY PLOUGHING               H. WOLF.....25
+
+THE RETURN FROM THE FIELDS    GEORGE SMITH.....26
+
+VOICES OF THE NIGHT           JOHN FILMER.....27
+
+A RAINY DAY                   J. HELLAWELL.....29
+
+A HANDFUL FROM THE WOODS      H. GRAY.....32
+
+AFTER ARBUTUS                 J. TINKEY.....34
+
+THE FAIRY FROND               J. P. DAVIS.....35
+
+AN APRIL DAY                  GEORGE SMITH.....36
+
+AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS        SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....37
+
+THE COLUMBINE                 R. HOSKIN.....38
+
+THE MEADOW BROOK              "     ".....40
+
+THE PHOEBE'S NEST             W. H. MORSE.....41
+
+BUILDING THE NEST             HENRY MARSH.....42
+
+IN THE APPLE ORCHARD          R. HOSKIN.....43
+
+LITTLE PLUNDERERS             A. HAYMAN.....45
+
+ONE OF NATURE'S MARVELS       H. MARSH.....46
+
+BLUE-FLAGS                    R. HOSKIN.....47
+
+THE CONSUMING FLAME           W. H. CLARK.....50
+
+THE CONSUMMATION              N. ORR.....51
+
+DOLCE FAR NIENTE              F. S. KING.....55
+
+THE OLD GARRET                F. JUENGLING.....56
+
+AMID THE GRASSES              F. S. KING.....58
+
+EVEN-TIDE                     G. KRUELL.....60
+
+THROUGH THE SEDGES            R. HOSKIN.....62
+
+AMONG THE BOGS                J. TINKEY.....63
+
+SOME ART CONNOISSEURS         R. HOSKIN.....64
+
+PROFESSOR WIGGLER             J. FILMER.....65
+
+THE TYRANT OF THE FIELDS      H. E. SCHULTZ.....67
+
+FAMILIAR FACES AT THE
+VILLAGE STORE                 R. A. MULLER.....70
+
+A SOUVENIR                    SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....72
+
+ALONG THE HOUSATONIC          GEORGE SMITH.....74
+
+JUDD'S BRIDGE                 P. ANNIN.....78
+
+THE HAUNTED MILL              J. HELLAWELL.....79
+
+PURSUERS AND PURSUED          GEORGE ANDREW.....81
+
+TOLLING FOR THE DEAD          R. SCHELLING.....83
+
+WRECKS OF THE TORNADO         J. FILMER.....84
+
+PASSING THOUGHTS              H. GRAY.....86
+
+THE SMOULDERING FLAME         "   ".....90
+
+THE WANING                    A. HAYMAN.....91
+
+"EVERY BREEZE A SIGH"         F. S. KING.....93
+
+AN OCTOBER DAY                SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....96
+
+A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL           J. HELLAWELL.....97
+
+WAIFS                         HENRY MARSH.....100
+
+IN THE CORNFIELD              W. MILLER.....102
+
+THE ROAD TO THE MILL          E. HELD.....105
+
+THE CIDER-MILL                J. P. DAVIS.....107
+
+THE "LINE STORM"              R. HOSKIN.....109
+
+A POINTED REMINDER            J. FILMER.....111
+
+AFTER THE SHELL-BARKS         GEORGE SMITH.....113
+
+A CORNER OF THE FARM          J. TINKEY.....115
+
+BEECH-NUTTING                 W. H. MORSE.....118
+
+THE NORTH WIND                MORSE and HOSKIN.....120
+
+DESERTED                      HENRY DEIS.....121
+
+THE FLAME EXTINGUISHED        H. GRAY.....124
+
+THE SLEEP                     J. TINKEY.....125
+
+THE TOMB                      J. P. DAVIS.....127
+
+SNOW-FLAKES OF MEMORY         GEORGE SMITH.....129
+
+THE OLD MILL-POND             H. GRAY.....131
+
+THE FIRST SNOW                GEORGE SMITH.....133
+
+MUTE PROPHECIES               H. E. SCHULTZ.....135
+
+THE TWITCH-UP                 F. S. KING.....137
+
+THE WINTER'S DARLING          HENRY MARSH.....139
+
+WHO'S THAT?                   H. WOLF.....140
+
+SUNSHINE AND SHADOW IN THE
+WOODS                         R. HOSKIN.....141
+
+A SUNNY CORNER                W. H. MORSE.....143
+
+WINTER BROWSING               SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....144
+
+A JANUARY THAW                J. FILMER.....145
+
+THE MOONLIGHT RIDE            J. HELLAWELL.....147
+
+THE SHADOWED PAGE             J. TINKEY.....149
+
+THE GOOD PHYSICIAN            R. SCHELLING.....151
+
+THE FULFILMENT                SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....153
+
+
+
+
+SPRING.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: THE AWAKENING]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+As far as the eye can reach, the snow lies in a deep mantle over the
+cheerless landscape. I look out upon a dreary moor, where the horizon
+melts into the cold gray of a heavy sky. The restless wind sweeps with
+pitiless blast through shivering trees and over bleak hills, from whose
+crests, like a great white veil, the clouds of hoary flakes are lifted
+and drawn along by the gale. Down the upland slope, across the
+undulating field, the blinding drift, like a thing of life, speeds in
+its wild caprice, now swirling in fantastic eddies around some isolated
+stack, half hidden in its chill embrace, now winding away over
+bare-blown wall and scraggy fence, and through the sighing willows near
+the frozen stream; now with a wild whirl it flies aloft, and the dark
+pines and hemlocks on the mountain-side fade away in its icy mist.
+Again, yonder it appears trailing along the meadow, until, flying like
+some fugitive spirit chased from earth by the howling wind, it vanishes
+in the sky. On every side these winged phantoms lead their flying chase
+across the dreary landscape, and fence and barn and house upon the hill
+in turn are dimmed or lost to sight.
+
+Who has not watched the strange antics of the drifting snow whirling
+past the window on a blustering winter's day? But this is not a winter's
+day. This is the advent of a New England spring.
+
+Fortunate are we that its promises are not fulfilled, for the ides of
+March might as oft betoken the approach of a tempestuous winter as of a
+balmy spring. Consecrated to Mars and Tantalus, it is a month of
+contradictions and disappointments, of broken promises and incessant
+warfare. It is the struggle of tender awakening life against the
+buffetings of rude and blighting elements. No man can tell what a day
+may bring forth. Now we look out verily upon bleak December;
+to-morrow--who knows?--we may be transported into May, and, with
+aspirations high, feel our ardor cooled by a blast of ice and a blinding
+fall of snow. But this cannot always last, for soon the southern breezes
+come and hold their sway for days, and the north wind, angry in its
+defeat, is driven back in lowering clouds to the region of eternal ice
+and snow. Then comes a lovely day, without even a cloud--all blue above,
+all dazzling white below. The sun shines with a glowing warmth, and we
+say unto ourselves, "This is, indeed, a harbinger of spring." The
+sugar-maples throb and trickle with the flowing sap, and the lumbering
+ox-team and sled wind through the woods from tree to tree to relieve the
+overflowing buckets. The boiling caldron in the sugar-house near by
+receives the continual supply, and gives forth that sweet-scented steam
+that issues from the open door, and comes to us in occasional welcome
+whiffs across the snow. Long "wedges" of wild-geese are seen cleaving
+the sky in their northward flight. The little pussies on the willows
+are coaxed from their winter nest, and creep out upon the stem. The
+solitary bluebird makes his appearance, flitting along the thickets and
+stone walls with little hesitating warble, as if it were not yet the
+appointed time to sing; and down among the bogs, that cautious little
+pioneer, the swamp-cabbage flower, peers above the ground beneath his
+purple-spotted hood. He knows the fickle month which gives him birth,
+and keeps well under cover.
+
+[Illustration: CATKINS.]
+
+[Illustration: PUSSIES.]
+
+Such days in March are too perfect to endure, and at night the sky is
+overcast and dark. Then follows a long warm rain that unlocks the ice in
+all the streams. The whiteness of the hills and meadows melts into broad
+contracting strips and patches. One by one, as mere specks upon the
+landscape, these vanish in turn, until the last vestige of winter is
+washed from the face of the earth to swell the tide of the rushing
+stream. Even now, from the distant valley, we hear a continuous muffled
+roar, as the mighty freshet, impelled by an irresistible force, ploughs
+its tortuous channel through the lowlands and ravines. The quiet town is
+filled with an unusual commotion. Excited groups of towns-people crowd
+the village store, and eager voices tell of the havoc wrought by the
+fearful flood. We hear how the old toll-bridge, with tollman's house and
+all, was lifted from its piers like a pile of straw, and whirled away
+upon the current. How its floating timbers, in a great blockade, crushed
+into the old mill-pond; how the dam had burst, and the rickety red
+saw-mill gone to pieces down the stream. Farmer Nathan's barn had gone,
+and his flat meadows were like a whirling sea, strewn with floating
+rails and driftwood. Every hour records its new disaster as some eager
+messenger returns from the excited crowds which line the river-bank. How
+well I remember the fascinating excitement of the spring freshet as I
+watched the rising water in the big swamp lot, anxious lest it might
+creep up and undermine the wall foundations of the barn! And what a
+royal raft I made from the drifting logs and beams, and with the spirit
+of an adventurous explorer sailed out on the deep gliding current,
+floating high among the branches of the half submerged willow-trees, and
+scraping over the tips of the tallest alder-bushes, whose highest twigs
+now hardly reached the surface! How deep and dark the water looked as I
+lay upon the raft and peered into the depths below! But this jolly fun
+was of but short duration. The flood soon subsided, and on the following
+morning nothing was seen excepting the settlings of _d�bris_ strewn
+helter-skelter over the meadow, and hanging on all the bushes.
+
+The tepid rain has penetrated deep into the yielding ground, and with
+the winter's frost now coming to the surface, the roads are well-nigh
+impassable with their plethora of mud. For a full appreciation of _mud_
+in all its glory, and in its superlative degree, one should see a New
+England highway "when the frost comes out of the ground." The roads are
+furrowed with deep grimy ruts, in which the bedabbled wheels sink to
+their hubs as in a quicksand, and the hoofs of the floundering horse are
+held in the swampy depths as if in a vise. For a week or more this state
+of things continues, until at length, after warm winds and sunny days,
+the ground once more packs firm beneath the tread. This marks the close
+of idle days. The junk pile in the barn is invaded, and the rusty plough
+abstracted from the midst of rakes and scythes and other farming tools.
+The old white horse thrusts his long head from the stall near by, and
+whinnies at the memories it revives, and with pricked-up ears and
+whisking tail tells plainly of the eagerness he feels.
+
+[Illustration: EARLY PLOUGHING.]
+
+Back and forth through the sloping lot the ploughman slowly turns the
+dingy sward, and in the rich brown furrow, following in his track, we
+see the cackling troop of hens, and the lordly rooster, with great ado,
+searches out the dainty tidbits for his motley crowd of favorites. The
+whole landscape has become infused with human life and motion. Wherever
+the eye may turn it sees the evidences of varied and hopeful industry.
+Yonder we notice an oft-recurring little puff of mist, like a burlesque
+snow-drift, ever and anon bursting into view, and softly vanishing
+against the sward; another glance detects the slow progress of horse and
+cart, as the farmer sows his load of plaster across the whitening field.
+Farther up, where the brow of the hill stands clear against the sky, a
+pacing figure, with measured sweep of arm, scatters the handfuls of
+wheat, and team and harrow soon are in his path, combing and crumbling
+the dark-brown mould. High curling wreaths of smoke wind upward from the
+flat swamp lot beyond, where hilarious boys enjoy both work and play in
+burning off the brush. Here we shall see the first welcome nibble of
+fresh grass for the poor bereaved cow, whose lamenting bleat now echoes
+through the barn near by; and for those oxen, too, that with swaying,
+clumsy gait lug the huge roller across the neighboring field. And what
+strange yells and exclamations guide them in their labored progress! "Ho
+back! Gee up, ahoy! Ho haw!" From every direction, in voices near, and
+others faint with distance, we hear this same queer jargon. Who could
+believe that so much good work hung upon the incessant reiteration of
+that brief and monotonous vocabulary? Rather would we listen to the
+musical ring of the laughing children riding on the big "brush harrow"
+down through that barn-yard lane beyond. Now they are out upon the
+broken ground where John has strewn the "compost" to be "brushed in." A
+broad flat wake follows them around the field, and that same troop of
+hens and turkeys revel in the lively feast spread out before them in the
+loose upturning.
+
+[Illustration: RETURN FROM THE FIELDS.]
+
+[Illustration: VOICES OF THE NIGHT.]
+
+So runs the record of a busy day in the early New England springtime,
+and with its all-absorbing industry it is a day that passes quickly. The
+afternoon runs into evening. Cool shadows creep across the landscape as
+the glowing sun sinks through the still bare and leafless trees and
+disappears behind the wooded hills. The fields are now deserted, and
+through the uncertain twilight we see the little knots of workmen with
+their swinging pails, and hear their tramp along the homeward road. In
+the dim shadows of the evergreens beyond, a faint gray object steals
+into view. Now it stops at the old watering-trough, and I hear the sip
+of the eager horse and the splash of overflowing water. Some belated
+ploughman, fresh, perhaps, from a half-hour's gossip at the village
+store. I hear the sound of hoofs upon the stones as they renew their
+way, the dragging of the chain upon the gravelly bed, and the receding
+form is lost in the darkening road. One by one the scattered barns and
+houses have disappeared in the gathering dusk, marked only by the faint
+columns of blue smoke that rise above the trees, and melt away against
+the twilight sky. I look out upon a wilderness of gloom, where all above
+is still and clear, and all below is wrapped in impenetrable mystery. A
+plaintive piping trill now breaks the impressive stillness. Again and
+again I hear the little lonely voice vibrating through the low-lying
+mist. It is only a little frog in some far-off marsh; but what a sweet
+sense of sadness is awakened by that lowly melody! How its weird minor
+key, with its magic touch, unlocks the treasures of the heart. Only the
+peeping of a frog; but where in all the varied voices of the night,
+where, even among the great chorus of nature's sweetest music, is there
+another song so lulling in its dreamy melody, so full of that emotive
+charm which quickens the human heart? How often in the vague spring
+twilight have I yielded to the strange, fascinating melancholy awakened
+by the frog's low murmur at the water's edge! How many times have I
+lingered near some swampy roadside bog, and let these little wizards
+weave their mystic spell about my willing senses, while the very air
+seemed to quiver in the fulness of their song! I remember the tangle of
+tall and withered rushes, through whose mysterious depths the eye in
+vain would strive to penetrate at the sound of some faint splash or
+ripple, or perhaps at the quaint, high-keyed note of some little
+isolated hermit, piping in his sombre solitude. I recall the first
+glimpse of the rising moon, as its great golden face peered out at me
+from over the distant hill, enclosing half the summit against its broad
+and luminous surface. Slowly and steadily it seemed to steal into view,
+until, risen in all its fulness, I caught its image in the trembling
+ripples at the edge of the soggy pool, where the palpitating water
+responded to the frog's low, tremulous monotone. Higher and higher it
+sails across the inky sky, its glow now changed to a silvery pallor,
+across whose white halo, in a floating film, the ghostly clouds glide in
+their silent flight. A dull tinkling of some distant cow-bell breaks
+the spell, and recalls my wandering thoughts, and as I again take up my
+way along the moonlit road, the glimmering windows on right and left
+betray the hiding-places of a score of humble homes. Not far beyond I
+see the swinging motion of a flickering lantern, as some tardy farmer's
+boy, whistling about his work, clears up his nightly chores. Now he
+enters the old barn-door. I see the light glinting through the open
+cracks, and hear the lowing of the cows, the bleating of the baby-calf,
+and rattling chains of oxen in the stanchion rows. Now again I catch the
+gleam at the open door; the swinging light flits across the yard, and
+the old corn-crib starts from its obscurity. I see the boyish figure
+relieved against the glow within as a basketful of yellow ears are
+gathered for the impatient mouths in the noisy manger stalls. Sing on,
+my boy, enjoy it while you may! That venerable barn will yield a
+fragrance to you in after-life that will conjure up in your heart a
+throng of memories as countless as the shining grains that glimmer in
+the light you hold, and as golden, too, as they. I wonder if those
+soft-winged bats squeak among the clapboards, or make their fluttering
+zigzag swoops about your lantern as they were wont to do in olden times.
+
+Then there was that big-eyed owl, too, that perched upon the maple-tree
+outside my window, and cried as if its heart would break at the doleful
+tidings it foretold. What a world of kind solicitude that dolorous bird
+awakened in our superstitious neighbor across the road! How she
+overwhelmed us with her sympathy, aroused by that sepulchral omen! But I
+still live, and so does the owl, for aught I know; and I sometimes think
+that this aged, stooping dame over the way has never fully recovered
+from her disappointment, for she always greets me with a sigh and an
+injured expression, as she says, in her high and tremulous voice, "Well!
+well! back agin ez hale 'n hearty 's ever; an' arter the way thet ar
+witch bird yewst teu call ye, too, night arter night. Jest teu _think_
+on't! an' we'd all a' gi'n ye up fer sartin. Well! well! I never see the
+beat on't. Yen deu seem teu hang on _paowerful_;" and, after a moment's
+hesitation, seemingly in which to swallow the bitter pill, she usually
+adds, with sad solicitude, "Feelin' perty _tol'ble teu_, I spose?" But
+the "witch bird" never roused my serious apprehensions. I remember its
+plaintive cry only as a tender bit of pathos in the pages of my early
+history.
+
+[Illustration: A RAINY DAY.]
+
+I recall, too, the pleasant sound upon the shingles overhead as the
+dark-clouded sky let fall its tell-tale drops to warn us of the coming
+rain. How many times have I glided into dream-land under the drowsy
+influence of the patter on the roof, and the ever varying tattoo upon
+the tin beneath the dripping eaves! Who can forget those rainy days,
+with their games of hide-and-seek in the old dark garret! How we looked
+out upon the muddy puddled road, and laughed at the great drifting
+sheets of water that ever and anon poured down from some bursting cloud,
+and roared upon the roof! And as the driving rain beat against the
+blurred window-panes, what strange capers the squirming tree-trunks
+outside seemed to play for our amusement: the dark door-way of the barn,
+too--now swelling out to twice its size, now stretching long and thin,
+or dividing in the middle in its queer contortions. Out in the dismal
+barn-yard we saw the forlorn row of hens huddled together on the
+hay-rick, under the drizzling straw-thatched shed; and the gabled coop
+near by, in whose dry retreat the motherly old hen spread her tawny
+wings, and yielded the warmth of her ruffled breast to the tender needs
+of her little family, peeping so contentedly beneath her. The rain-proof
+ducks dabble in the neighboring puddles, and chew the muddy water in
+search of floating dainties, or gulp with nodding heads the unlucky
+angle-worms which come struggling to the surface--drowned out of their
+subterranean tunnels.
+
+Now we hear the snapping of the latch at the foot of the garret stairs,
+and we are called to come and see a little outcast that John has brought
+in from the wood-pile. Close beside the kitchen-stove a doubled piece of
+blanket lies upon the floor, and within its folds we find what once was
+a downy little chicken, now drenched and dying from exposure. He was a
+naughty, wayward child, and would persist in thinking that he knew more
+than his mother. At least so I was told--indeed, it was impressed upon
+me. But the little fellow was rescued just in time. The warmth will soon
+revive him, and by-and-by we shall hear his little chirp and see him
+trot around the kitchen-floor, pecking at that everlasting fly, perhaps,
+or at some tiny red-hot coal that snaps out from the stove.
+
+Little did we suspect the mission of those rainy days, so drear and
+dismal without, or the sweet surprise preparing for us in the myriad
+mysteries of life beneath the sod, where every root and thread-like
+rootlet in the thirsty earth was drinking in that welcome moisture, and
+numberless sleeping germs, dwelling in darkness, were awakening into
+life to seek the light of day, waiting only for the glory of a sunny
+dawn to burst forth from their hiding-places! That sunny morn does come
+at last, and in its beams it sheds abroad a power that stirs the deepest
+root. It is, indeed, a glorious day. The clustered buds upon the
+silver-maples burst in their exuberance, and fringe the graceful
+branches with their silken tassels. The restless crocus, for months an
+unwilling captive in its winter prison, can contain itself no longer,
+and with its little overflowing cup lifts up its face to the blue
+heaven. Golden daffodils burst into bloom on drooping stems, and
+exchange their little nods on right and left. The air is filled with a
+faint perfume, in which the very earth mould yields its fragrance--that
+wild aroma only known to spring. Our little feathered friends, so few
+and far between as yet, are full of song. The bluebird wooes his mate
+with a loving warble, full of tender sweetness, as they flit among the
+swaying twigs, or pry with diligent search for some snug nesting-place
+among the hollow crannies of the orchard trees. The noisy blackbirds
+hold high carnival in the top of the old pine-tree, the woodpecker taps
+upon the hollow limb his resonant tattoo, and the hungry crows, like a
+posse of tramps, hang around the great oak-tree upon the knoll, and
+watch to see what they can steal. Down through the meadow the gurgling
+stream babbles as of old, and along its fretted banks the alder thickets
+are hanging full with drooping catkins swinging at every breeze. The
+glossy willow-buds throw off their coat of fur, and plume themselves in
+their wealth of inflorescence, lighting up the brook-side with a yellow
+glow, and exhaling a fresh, delicious perfume. Here, too, we hear the
+rattling screech of the swooping kingfisher, as with quick beats of wing
+he skims along the surface of the stream, and with an ascending glide
+settles upon the overhanging branch above the ripples. All these and a
+thousand more I vividly recall from the memory of that New England
+spring; but sweetest of all its manifold surprises was that crowning
+consummation, that miracle of a single night, bringing on countless
+wings through the early morning mist the welcome chorus of the returning
+flocks of birds. How they swarmed the orchard and the elms, where but
+yesterday the bluebird held his sway! Now we see the fiery oriole in his
+gold and jetty velvet flashing in the morning sun, and robins without
+number swell their ruddy throats in a continuous roundelay of song. The
+pert cat-bird in his Quaker garb is here, and with flippant jerk of tail
+and impertinent mew bustles about among the arbor-vit�s, where even now
+are remnants of his last year's nest. The puffy wrens, too, what saucy,
+sputtering little bursts of glee are theirs as they strut upon the
+rustic boxes in the maples! The fields are vocal with their sweet spring
+medley, in which the happy carols of the linnets and the song sparrows
+form a continuous pastoral. Now we hear the mellow bell of the wood
+thrush echoing from some neighboring tree, and all intermingled with the
+chatter and the gossip of the martens on their lofty house. Birds in the
+sky, birds in the trees and on the ground, birds everywhere, and not a
+silent throat among them; but from far and near, from mountain-side and
+meadow, from earth and sky, uniting in a happy choral of perpetual
+jubilee.
+
+[Illustration: A HANDFUL FROM THE WOODS.]
+
+Down in the moist green swamp lot the yellow cowslips bloom along the
+shallow ditch, and the eager farmer's wife fills her basket with the
+succulent leaves she has been watching for so long; for they'll tell you
+in New England that "they ain't noth'n' like caowslips for a mess o'
+greens." Near by we see the frog pond, with lush growth of arrow leaves
+and pickerel weed, and flat blades of blue-flag just starting from the
+boggy earth. Half submerged upon a lily pad, close by the water's edge,
+an ugly toad sits watching for some winged morsel for that ample mouth
+of his.
+
+Who could believe that so much poetic inspiration could emerge from such
+a mouth as that; for verily it is this miserable-looking toad that lifts
+his little voice in the dreamy, drowsy chorus of the twilight. All sorts
+of odium have been heaped upon the innocent toad; but he only returns
+good for evil. He is the farmer's faithful friend. He guards his garden
+by day, and lulls him to sleep by night. Yonder, near those withered
+cat-tails, we see the village boys among the calamus-beds, pulling up
+the long white roots tipped with pink and fringed with trickling
+rootlets. What visions of candied flag-root stimulate them in their
+zeal! I can almost see the tender, juicy leaf-bud screened beneath that
+smooth pink sheath, and its aromatic pungency is as fresh and real to me
+as this appetizing fragrance that comes to us from the green tufts of
+spearmint we crush beneath our feet at every step. Bevies of swallows
+all around us skim through the air, like feathered darts, in their
+twittering flight; and the restless starling, like a field-marshal, with
+his scarlet epaulets, keeps sharp lookout for the enemy, and "flutes his
+O-ka-lee" from the high alder-bush at the slightest approach upon his
+chosen ground. Yonder on the wooded slope the feathery shad-tree blooms,
+like a suspended cloud of drifting snow lingering among the gray twigs
+and branches; and chasing across the matted leaves beneath, a lively
+troop of youngsters, girls and boys, make the woods resound with their
+boisterous jubilee. A jolly band of fugitives fresh from the stormy
+week's captivity--spring buds bursting with life, with a pent-up store
+of spirits that finds escape in an effervescence of ringing laughs and
+in a din of incessant jabber. Well I know the buoyant exhilaration that
+impels them on in their reckless frolic, as they skip from stone to
+stone across the rippling stream, or "stump" each other on the
+treacherous crossing-pole which spans the deep still current! Now I see
+them huddle around the trickling grotto among the mossy bowlders in the
+steep gully yonder, where the mountain spring bubbles into a crystal
+pool. Alas! how quickly its faint blue border of hepaticas is rifled by
+the ruthless mob! Now they clamber up the great gray rocks beneath the
+drooping hemlocks, stopping in their headlong zeal to snatch some
+trembling cluster of anemone, nodding from its velvety bed of moss; now
+plunging down on hands and knees, shedding innocent blood among an
+unsuspecting colony of fragile bloom--those glowing blossoms so welcome
+in the early spring! Who does not know the bloodroot--that shy recluse
+hiding away among the mountain nooks, that emblem of chaste purity with
+its bridal ring of purest gold? Who has not seen its tender leaf-wrapped
+buds lifting the matted leaves, and spreading their galaxy of snowy
+stars along the woodland path?
+
+Then there was the shy arbutus, too. Where in all the world's bouquet is
+there another such a darling of a flower? And where in all New England
+does that darling show so full and sweet a face as in its home upon that
+sunny slope I have in mind, and know so well? Was ever such a fragrant
+tufted carpet spread beneath a hesitating foot? Even now, along the
+lichen-dappled wall upon the summit, I see the lingering strip of snow,
+gritty and speckled, and at its very edge, hiding beneath the covering
+leaves, those modest little faces looking out at me--faces which seemed
+to blush a deeper pink at their rude discovery. No other flower can
+breathe the perfume of the arbutus, that earthy, spicy fragrance, which
+seems as though distilled from the very leaf-mould at its roots. Often
+on this sunny slope, so sheltered by dense pines and hemlocks, have
+these charming clusters, pink and white, burst into bloom beneath the
+snow in March; and even on a certain late February day, we discovered a
+little, solitary clump, fully spread, and fairly ruddy with the cold.
+Here, too, we found the earliest sprays of the slender maidenhair; that
+fairy frond and loveliest among ferns, with black and lustrous stems,
+and graceful spread of tender gauzy green.
+
+[Illustration: AFTER ARBUTUS.]
+
+Where was the nook in all that hill-side woods that we left unsearched
+in our April ramblings? I recall the "tat," "tat" upon the dry carpet of
+beech leaves, as the delicate anemone in my hand is dashed by a falling
+drop! Lost in eager occupation, we had not observed the shadow that had
+stolen through the forest; and now, as we look out through the trees, we
+see the steel-blue warning of the coming shower, and feel the first gust
+of the tell-tale breeze--how the willows wave and gleam against the deep
+gray clouds, so weirdly reflected in the gliding stream beneath, like an
+open seam to another sky! See the silvery flashes of that flock of
+pigeons circling against the lurid background. No, we cannot stop to
+see them, for the rain-drops begin to patter thick and fast. Away we
+scamper to the shelter of the overhanging rocks. The lowering sky rolls
+above us through the branches. The glassy surface of the brook takes on
+a leaden hue as the rain-cloud drags its misty veil across the distant
+meadows. The brown leaves jump and spatter at my feet, and the blue
+liverwort flowers on right and left duck their heads like little living
+things dodging the pelting rain-drops.
+
+[Illustration: THE FAIRY FROND.]
+
+Oh, the lovely fickleness an April day! Even now the distant hill is lit
+up by the bursting sun. Nearer and nearer the gleam creeps across the
+landscape, chasing the shower away, and in a moment more the meadows
+glow with a freshened green, and the trees stand transfigured in
+glistening beads flashing in the sunbeams. The quickened earth gives
+forth its grateful incense, and even an enthusiastic frog down in the
+lily-pond sends up his little vote of thanks.
+
+[Illustration: AN APRIL DAY.]
+
+April's woods are teeming with all forms of life, if one will only look
+for them. On every side the ferns, curled up all winter in their dormant
+sleep, unroll their spiral sprays, and reach out for the welcome sun.
+The spicy colt's-foot, or wild ginger, lifts its downy leaves among the
+mossy rocks and crevices, and its homely flower just peeps above the
+ground, and, with a lingering glance at the blushing _Rue anemone_ close
+by, hangs its humble head, never to look up again. High above us the
+eccentric cottonwood-tree dangles its long speckled plumes, so silvery
+white. Now we hear a mellow drumming sound, as some unsuspecting grouse,
+concealed among the undergrowth near by, beats his resonant breast.
+Could we but get a glimpse of him, we would see him simulate the
+barn-yard gobbler, as with proud strut and spreading tail he disports
+himself upon some fallen log or mossy rock. Perhaps, too, that coy mate
+is near, admiring his show of gallantry, and holding a sly flirtation.
+
+[Illustration: AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS.]
+
+Look at this craggy precipice of rock, lost above among the
+green-tasselled evergreens, and trickling with crystal drops from every
+drooping sprig of moss. How its rugged surface is painted with the
+mottled lichens of every hue, here like a faint tinge of cool
+sage-green, and there in large brown blotches of rich color! See the
+fringe of ferns that bursts from the fissure across its surface. There
+the trillium hangs its three-cleft flower of rich maroon; and later we
+shall see the fern-like spray of Solomon's-seal swinging its little row
+of straw-colored bells from the ledge above. Airy columbines, too, shall
+float their scarlet pendants on fragile stems, and with their graceful
+nod tell of the slightest breeze, when all else is still. What is that
+cinnamon-brown bird that hops along the stone wall yonder? Now he
+alights upon the tulip-tree, and swells his speckled breast in a series
+of short experiments--a broken song, in which every note or call has
+its twin echo. A "mocking-thrush" he is, indeed, for he mimics his own
+song from morn till night in all the thickets and pasture-lands. Take
+care there! why, you almost trod upon that feathery tuft of "Dutchman's
+breeches." Oh, who is he that dared to clothe this sweet blossom in such
+an ignominious title? Where is the Dutchman that ever wore
+unmentionables of such exquisite pink satin as that pale _dicentra_
+wears? No wonder their little broken hearts droop at the insult!
+
+[Illustration: THE COLUMBINE.]
+
+The grotesque Jack-in-the-pulpit, rising above that crumbling log, is
+named more to my mind. There he stands beneath his striped canopy, and
+preaches to me a sermon on the well-remembered rashness of my youth in
+trifling with that subterranean bulb from which he grows. But I ignored
+his warning in those early days. I only knew that a real nice boy across
+the way seemed very fond of those little Indian turnips, called them
+"sugar-roots," and said that they were full of honey. And as he bit off
+his eager mouthful, and refused to let me taste, I sought one for
+myself, and, generous boy that he was, he showed me where to find the
+buried treasure. It was like a small turnip, an innocent-looking affair
+(and so was the nice boy's modelled piece of apple, by-the-way). But oh!
+the sudden revelation of the red-hot reservoir of chain-lightning that
+crammed that innocent bulb! Even as I think of it, how I long once more
+to interview that real nice boy who opened up the mysteries of the
+"sugar-root" to my tempted curiosity. Let boys beware of this wild,
+red-hot coal; and should they be impelled by a desire to test the
+unknown flavor, let them solace themselves with a less dangerous mixture
+of four papers of cambric needles and a spoonful of pounded glass. This
+will give a faint suggestion of the racy pungency of the Indian turnip.
+Were some kind friend at the present day to seek to kill me off with
+poisoned food, I should forthwith have him arrested on a charge of
+attempted murder, and incarcerated in the county jail. But what would be
+wilful homicide in the man is only a guileless proof of friendship in
+the boy, and his affections and their symptoms present a living paradox;
+and those boisterous days, with all their fond caresses in the way of
+fights and bruises and black eyes, and even Indian turnips, we all agree
+were full of fun the like of which we never shall see again.
+
+[Illustration: MEADOW BROOK.]
+
+How well we remember those tramps along the meadow brook: the dark,
+still holes beneath the overhanging rocks, where, with golden slipping
+loop and pole and cautious creep, we wired those lazy, unsuspecting
+"suckers" on the gravelly bed below! Ah! what scientific angling with
+the rod and reel in later years has ever brought back the keen tingle of
+that primitive sport? The great green bull-frogs, too, in the lily-pond,
+disclosing their cavernous resources as they jumped and splashed and
+sprawled after the tantalizing bit of red flannel on that dangling hook!
+We recall that rickety bridge among the willows, and the mossy nest of
+mud so firmly fixed upon the beam beneath. How could we be so deaf to
+the pleading of those little phoebe-birds that fluttered so beseechingly
+about us? Then there was that deep hole in the sand-bank near the
+brook, where the burrowing kingfisher hid away his nest, where we
+watched in the twilight to see him enter, and, with big round stone in
+readiness, "plugged" him in his den! What fun it was to dig him out, and
+ventilate his musty nest of fish-bones! The starling in the thicket of
+the swamp circled through the air with angry "Quit! quit!" as we picked
+our way through the bristling bogs so close upon her nest. We'll not
+forget that false step that sent us sprawling in the green slimy mud, at
+the first electrifying glimpse of those brown spotted eggs. The
+high-holer, too, whose golden gleam of wing upon the bare dead tree
+betrayed his nesting-place in the hollow limb--was ever such a stimulus
+offered to the eagerness of youth? Who would give a second thought to
+his tender shins at the prospect of such a prize as a nest of
+high-hole's eggs? How round and white they were! how the pale golden
+yolk floated beneath the pearly shell! Those were jolly days for us; but
+the poor birds had to suffer, and few, indeed, were the nests that
+escaped our prying search. There was the cat-bird in the evergreens,
+with lovely eggs of peacock blue; the pure white treasures of the
+swallows in the mud nests under the barn-yard eaves; the sky-blue
+beauties of the robin; the brown speckled eggs in the sheltered nest of
+song-sparrows on the grassy slope; the dear little eggs of chippies in
+their horse-hair bed, and in their midst the insinuated specimen of the
+cheeky cow-blackbird: there were eggs of every shape and hue, and we
+knew too well where to put our hand on them.
+
+[Illustration: THE PHOEBE'S NEST.]
+
+[Illustration: BUILDING THE NEST.]
+
+In a flowering hawthorn outside our window we watched a loving pair
+building their pensile nest among the thorns and blossoms. How incessant
+was their solicitude for that fragile framework until its strength was
+fully assured against the tossing breeze! Tenderly and eagerly they
+helped each other in the disposition of those ravellings of string and
+strips of bark! he stopping every now and then to whisper sweetly to his
+mate, as she, with drooping, trembling wings, put up her little open
+bill to kiss. Yes, we often saw this little tender episode, as we
+watched them through the shutters of the half-closed blinds! Now he
+flies away; and the little spouse, thus left alone, jumps into the nest,
+and we see its mossy meshes swell as she fits the deep hollow to her
+feathery breast. Presently her consort returns, trailing along a
+gossamer of cobweb, which he throws around the supporting thorn, and
+leaves for her to spread and tuck among the crevices. Again he appears,
+with his tiny bill concealed in a silvery puff of cotton from the willow
+catkins in the swamp; next he brings a wisp of long gray moss; now a
+curly flake of rich brown lichen, or a jagged square of birch bark, all
+of which are laid against the nest, and half covered with films of
+cobweb. Once more we see his tiny form among the hawthorn blossoms as he
+tugs a papery piece of hornets' nest through the pink barricade. This is
+arranged to hang beneath as a pendant to their floating fabric, and the
+happy little couple sit together upon a neighboring twig in twittering
+admiration. And well they may, for a prettier nest than theirs never
+hung upon a thorn. Not perfect yet, it seems, however, for that little
+feminine eye has seen the need of one more touch. Away she flies, and in
+a minute more a downy feather, tipped with iridescent green, is adjusted
+in the cobwebs.
+
+[Illustration: IN THE APPLE ORCHARD.]
+
+This dainty little work of art is only one of the thousands that
+everywhere are building in the blooming trees and thickets. These are
+the supreme moments of the spring, consecrated to the loves of bird and
+blossom. Every little winged form that scarcely bends the twig has its
+all-consuming passion, and every tree its wedding of the flower. Out in
+the orchard the apple-trees are laden in veritable domes of pink-white
+bloom, as if by the rare spectacle of a rosy fall of snow, and from
+among the dewy petals the army of bees give forth their low, continuous
+drone--that sympathetic chord in the universal harmony of spring. How
+they revel in that rich harvest! Who knows what sweet messages are borne
+from flower to flower upon those filmy wings?
+
+On the green slope beneath, the scattered dandelions gleam like drops of
+molten gold upon the velvety sward, and a lounging family group, intent
+upon that savory noonday relish, gather the basketfuls of the dainty
+plants for that appetizing "mess of greens." Often, while thus engaged,
+have I stopped to watch the antics of the festive bumblebee, tumbling
+around in the tufted blossom--always an amusing sight. See how he rolls
+and wallows in the golden fringe, even standing on his head and kicking
+in his glee! Presently, with his long black nose thrust deep into the
+yellow puff, he stops to enjoy a quiet snooze in the luxurious bed--an
+endless sleep, for I generally took this chance to put him out of his
+misery, preferring, perhaps, to watch the robin hopping across the lawn.
+Now he stops, and seems to listen; runs a yard or so, and listens again,
+and without a sign of warning dips his head, and pulls upon an unlucky
+angle-worm that much prefers to go the other way. It is a well-known
+fact that angle-worms approach the surface of their burrows at the sound
+of rain-drops on the earth above. I sometimes wonder if the robin in its
+quick running stroke of foot intends to simulate that sound, and thus
+decoy its prey.
+
+I remember the wild tumult of a troop of boys upon the hill-side,
+tracking the swarming bees as they whirled along in a living tangle
+against the sky, now loosening in their dizzy meshes, now contracting in
+a murmuring hum around their queen, and finally settling on a branch in
+a pendent bunch about her. So tame and docile, too! seeming utterly to
+forget their fiery javelins as they hung in that brown filmy mass upon
+the bending bough! "A swarm of bees in May iz wuth a load o' hay." So
+said our neighbor, as with fresh clean hive he secured that prized
+equivalent. Here they are soon at home again, and we see their steady
+winged stream pouring out through the little door of their
+treasure-house, and the continual arrival of the little dusty
+plunderers, laden with their smuggled store of honey, and their
+saddle-bags replete with stolen gold. Down near the brook they find a
+land of plenty, literally flowing with honey, as the luxuriant drooping
+clusters of the locust-trees yield their brimful nectaries to the
+impetuous, murmuring swarm. But there is no lack now of flowery sweets
+for this buzzing colony. On every hand the meadow-sweets and milkweeds,
+the brambles, and the fragrant creeping-clover show their alluring
+colors in the universal burst of bloom, and not one escapes its tender
+pillaging.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Up in the woods the gray has turned to tender green. The flowering
+dog-wood has spread its layers of creamy blossoms, giving the signal for
+the planting of the corn, and in the furrowed field we see that
+dislocated "man of straw," with old plug hat jammed down upon his face,
+with wooden backbone sticking through his neck-band, and dirty thatch
+for a shirt bosom--a mocking outrage on any crow's sagacity. Those
+glittering strips of tin, too! Could you but interpret the low croaking
+of the leader of that sable gang in yonder tree, you might hear of the
+appalling effect of these precautions. I heard him once as I sat quietly
+beneath a forest tree, and in the light of later events I readily
+recalled his remarks upon the occasion: "Say, fellers! look at that old
+fool down there hanging out those tins to show us where his corn is
+planted. Haw! haw! I swaw! cawn! cawn! we'll go down thaw and take a
+chaw!" And they did; and they perched upon that old plug hat, and looked
+around for something to get scared about. A single look at a crow shows
+that he has a long head, and it is not all mouth either.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: BLUE-FLAGS.]
+
+Every day now makes a transformation in the landscape. The golden stars
+upon the lawn are nearly all burnt out: we see their downy ashes in the
+grass. Their virgin flame is quenched, and naught remains but those
+ethereal globes of smoke that rise up and float away with every breeze.
+Where is there in all nature's marvels a more exquisite creation than
+this evanescent phoenix of the dandelion? Beautiful in life, it is
+even more beautiful in death. And now the high-grown grass is cloudy
+with its puffs, whose little fairy parachutes are sailing everywhere,
+over mountain-top and field. Here the corn has appeared in little waving
+plumes, and the horse and cultivator are seen breaking up the soil
+between the rows. Great snowy piles of cloud throw their gliding shadows
+across the patchwork of ploughed fields and meadows, fresh and green
+with winter wheat, or tinged with newly sprouting grain. The sunbeams
+glow with a summer warmth, and the evaporation of the morning dews lifts
+the glistening diamonds from the gossamer films among the grass, and
+sends a quivering haze all through the air, in which the distant trees
+tremble in a softened glimmer. The woods are screened in dense foliage,
+and through the leafy canopy the merry birds dart and sing.
+
+The chickadees are here, and scarlet tanagers gleam like living bits of
+fire among the tantalizing leaves. Pert little vireos hop inquisitively
+about you, and the bell note of the wood-thrush echoes from the hidden
+tree-top overhead. Perhaps, too, you may chance upon a downy brood of
+quail cuddling among the dry leaves; but, even though you should, you
+might pass them by unnoticed, except as a mildewed spot of fungus at the
+edge of a fallen log or tree-stump, perhaps. The loamy ground is shaded
+knee-deep with rank growth of wood plants. The mossy, speckled rock is
+set in a fringe of ferns. Palmate sprays of ginseng spread in mid-air a
+luxurious carpet of intermingled leaves, interspersed with yellow spikes
+of loosestrife and pale lilac blooms of crane's-bill; and the
+poison-ivy, creeping like a snake around that marbled beech, has
+screened its hairy trunk beneath its three-cleft shiny leaves. The
+mountain-laurel, with its deep green foliage and showy clusters, peers
+above that rocky crag; and in the bog near by a thicket of wild azalea
+is crowned with a profusion of pink blossoms.
+
+Out in the swamp meadow the tall clumps of boneset show their dull white
+crests, and the blue flowers of the flag, the mint, and pickerel weed
+deck the borders of the lily pond. The waddling geese let off their
+shrieking calliopes as they sail out into the stream, or browse with
+nodding twitch along the grassy bank. Swarms of yellow butterflies
+disgrace their kind as they huddle around the greenish mud-holes, and we
+hear on every side the "z-zip, z-zip," amidst the din of a thousand
+crickets and singing locusts among the reeds and rushes. The meadows
+roll and swell in billowy waves, bearing like a white-speckled foam upon
+their crests a sea of daisies, with here and there a floating patch of
+crimson clover, or a golden haze of butter-cups. Rising suddenly from
+the tall grass near by, the gushing brimful bobolink crowds a
+half-hour's song into a brief pell-mell rapture, beating time in mid-air
+with his trembling wings, and alighting on the tall fence-rail to regain
+his breath. A coy meadow-lark shows his yellow-breast and crescent above
+the windrow yonder, and we hear the ringing beats of whetted scythes,
+and see the mowers cut their circling swath.
+
+Mowing! Why, how is this? This surely is not Spring. But even thus the
+Springtime leads us into Summer. No eye can mark the soft transition,
+and ere we are aware the sweet fragrance of the new-mown hay breathes
+its perfumed whisper, "Behold, the Spring has fled!"
+
+
+
+
+SUMMER.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: THE CONSUMMATION]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+"All out for Hometown." There is an epidemic of eagerness, a general
+bustle for satchels and bundles, and the car is soon almost without a
+passenger; and, indeed, it would really seem as though the whole train
+had landed its entire human burden upon this platform; for Hometown is a
+popular place, and every Saturday evening brings just such an exodus as
+this: Husbands and fathers who fly from the hot and crowded city for a
+Sunday of quiet and content with their families, who year after year
+have found a refuge of peace and comfort in this charming New England
+town. Where is it? Talk with almost any one familiar with the
+picturesque boroughs of the Housatonic, and your curiosity will be
+gratified, for this village will be among the first to be described.
+
+From the platform of the car we step into the midst of a motley
+assemblage, rustic peasantry and fashionable aristocracy intermingled.
+Anxious and eager faces meet you at every turn. For a few minutes the
+air fairly rings with kisses, as children welcome fathers, and fathers
+children. Strange vehicles crowd the depot--vehicles of all sizes and
+descriptions, from the veritable "one-hoss shay" to the dainty
+basket-phaeton of fashion. One by one the merry loads depart, while I, a
+pilgrim to my old home, stand almost unrecognized by the familiar faces
+around me. Leaning up against the porch near by, stands a character
+which, once seen, could never be forgotten. His face is turned from me,
+but the old straw hat I recognize as the hat of ten years ago, with brim
+pulled down to a slope in front, and pushed up vertically behind, and
+the identical hole in the side with the long hair sticking through. Yes,
+there he stands--Amos Shoopegg. I step up to him and lay my hand upon
+his shoulder. With creditable skill he unwinds the twist of his
+intricate legs, and with an inquiring gaze turns his good-natured face
+toward me.
+
+"Is it possible that you don't remember me, Shoop?"
+
+With an expression of surprise he raises both his arms. "Wa'al, thar! I
+swaiou! I didn't cal'late on runnin' agin yeu. I was jes drivin' hum
+from taown-meetin', an' thought as haow I'd take a turn in, jest out o'
+cur'osity. Wa'al, naow, it's pesky good to see yeu agin arter sech a
+long spell. I didn't re_cog_nize ye at fust, but I swan when ye began
+a-talkin', that was enuf fer me. Hello! fetched yer woman 'long tew,
+hey? Haow air yeu, ma'am? hope ye'er perty tol'ble. Don't see but what
+yeu look's nateral's ever; but yer man here, I declar for't, he got the
+best on me at fust;" and after having thus delivered himself, he
+swallowed up our hands in his ample fists.
+
+"Yes, Shoop, I thought I'd just run up to the old home for a few days."
+
+"Wa'al, I swar! I'm tarnal glad to see ye, and that's a fact. Anybody
+cum up arter ye? No? Well, then, s'posin' ye jest highst into my team."
+So saying, he unhitched a corrugated shackle-jointed steed, and backed
+around his indescribable impromptu covered wagon--a sort of a hybrid
+between a "one-hoss shay" and a truck.
+
+"'Tain't much of a kerridge fer city folks to ride in, that's a fact,"
+he continued, "but I cal'late it's a little better'n shinnin' it." After
+some little manoeuvring in the way of climbing over the front seat, we
+were soon wedged in the narrow compass, and, with an old horse-blanket
+over our knees, we went rattling down the hill toward the village and
+home of my boyhood.
+
+Years have passed since those days when, as a united family, we dwelt
+under that old roof; but those who once were children are now men and
+women, with divided interests and individual homes. The old New England
+mansion is now a homestead only in name, known so only in recollections
+of the past and the possibilities of the future.
+
+"Wa'al, thar's the old house," presently exclaimed Amos, as we neared
+the brow of a declivity looking down into the valley below. "Don't look
+quite so spruce as't did in the old times, but Warner's a good keerful
+tenant, 'tain't no use talkin'. I cal'late yeu might dig a pleggy long
+spell afore yeu could git another feller like him in this 'ere patch."
+
+In the vale below, in its nest of old maples and elms, almost screened
+from view by the foliage, we look upon the familiar outlines of the old
+mansion, its diamond window in the gable peering through the branches at
+us. "Skedup!" cried Amos, as he urged his pet nag into a jog-trot down
+the hill, through the main street of the town. The long fence in front
+of the homestead is soon reached, a sharp turn into the drive, a "Whoa,
+January!" and we are extricated from the wagon.
+
+"Wa'al, I'll leave ye naow. I guess ye kin find yer way around," said
+Shoop, as with one outlandish geometrical stride he lifted himself into
+the wagon. Cordially greeted by our hostess, with repeated urgings to
+"make ourselves at home," we were shown to our room. The house, though
+clad in a new dress, still retained the same hospitable and cosy look as
+of old.
+
+[Illustration: OLD HOMESTEAD AND GARRET.]
+
+Hometown, owing to some early local faction, is divided into two
+sections, forming two distinct towns. One, Newborough, a hill-top
+hamlet, with its picturesque long street, a hundred feet in width, and
+shaded with great weeping elms that almost meet overhead; and the other,
+Hometown proper, a picturesque little village in the valley, cuddling
+close around the foot of a precipitous bluff, known as Mount Pisgah. A
+mile's distance separates the two centres. The old homestead is
+situated in the heart of Hometown, fronting on the main street. The
+house itself is a series of after-thoughts, wing after wing and gable
+after gable having clustered around the old nucleus, as the growth of
+new generations necessitated increased accommodation. Its outward aspect
+is rather modern, but the interior, with its broad open fireplaces, and
+accessaries in the shape of cranes and fire-dogs, is rich with all the
+features of typical New England; and the two gables of the main roof
+enclose the dearest old garret imaginable--at present an asylum for the
+quaint possessions of antique furniture and bric-�-brac, removed from
+their accustomed quarters on the advent of the new host. It is to this
+sanctuary that my footsteps first lead me, and, with a longing that will
+not be withstood, I find myself in front of the great white door. I lift
+the latch; a cool pungent odor of oak wood greets me as I ascend the
+steep stairs--an odor that awakens, like magic, a hundred fancies, and
+recalls a host of memories long forgotten. Every stair seems to creak a
+welcome, as when, on the rainy days of long ago, we sought the cosy
+refuge to hear the patter on the roof, or to nestle in the dark, obscure
+corners in our childish games. At the head of the stairs rises the
+ancient chimney, cleft in twain at the foot, with the quaint little
+cuddy between. Above me stretch the great beams of oak, like iron in
+their hardness. Yonder is the queer old diamond window looking out upon
+the village church, its panes half obscured by the dusty maze of webs.
+To the left, in a shadowy corner, stands the antiquated wheel--a relic
+of past generations. Long gray cobwebs festoon the rafters overhead, and
+the low buzzing of a wasp betrays its mud nest in the gable above. A
+sense of sadness steals over me as I sit gazing into this still chamber.
+On every side are mementos of a happy past, and all, though mute,
+speaking to me in a language whose power stirs the depths of my soul.
+Wherever the eye may turn, it meets with a silent greeting from an old
+friend, and the whole shrouded in a weird gloom that lends to the most
+common object an air of melancholy mystery. And yet it is only a garret.
+There are some, no doubt, for whom this word finds its fitting synonyme
+in the dictionary, but there are others to whom it sings a poem of
+infinite sweetness.
+
+Looking through the dingy window between the maple boughs, my eye
+extends over lawn and shrubberies, three acres in extent--a little park,
+overrun with paths in every direction, through ancient orchard and
+embowered dells, while far beyond are glimpses of the wooded knolls, the
+winding brook, and meadows dotted with waving willows, and farther still
+the ample undulating farm.
+
+[Illustration: AMONG THE GRASSES.]
+
+It is in such a place as this that I have sought recreation and change
+of scene. My wife and I have run away from the city for a month or so. A
+vacation we call it; but to an artist such a thing is rarely known in
+its ordinary sense, and often, indeed, it means an increase of labor
+rather than a respite. My first week, however, I had consecrated to
+luxurious idleness. Together we wandered through the old familiar
+rambles where as boy and girl in earlier days we had been so oft
+together. Day after day found us in some new retreat. There were dark
+cool nooks by sheltered streams, spicy groves of pine and spruce,
+wooded slopes and rocky dells, and meadows rich with summer bloom, where
+idle butterflies flitted lazily on the wing; where meadow lilies nodded
+in billowing fields, and the daisies and red clover waved about our
+knees half screened in feathery purple grasses that spread their cloudy
+mist all through the blossoming maze. We heard the music of the scythe,
+and, sitting in the deep cool grass beneath the maple shade, we watched
+the circling motion of the mowers in the field--saw the forkfuls of the
+hay tossed in the drying sun, and breathed the perfumed air that floated
+from the windrows. We sauntered by the meadow brook where willows
+gleamed along the bank, and overhanging alders threw their sombre
+shadows in the quiet pools: where the ground-nut, and the meadow-rue,
+and the creeping madder fringed the tangled brink, and every footstep
+started up some agile frog that plunged into the unseen water. We stood
+where rippling shallows gurgled under festooned canopies of fox-grape,
+and the leaning linden-trees shut out the sky o'erhead and intertwined
+their drooping branches above the gliding current. Here, too, the
+weather-beaten crossing-pole makes its tottering span across the stream,
+and deep down beneath the bank the rainbow-tinted sunfish floats on
+filmy fins above his yellow bed of gravel, and we catch a flashing gleam
+of a silvery dace or shiner turning in the water.
+
+Now we confront a rude slab fence, an ancient landmark, that terminates
+its length at the edge of the stream, where its gray and crumbling
+boards are secured with rusty nails against the trunk of a tall
+buttonwood-tree. A loosened slab is easily found, and we are soon upon
+the other side; and after picking our way through a forest of
+bush-elders, we emerge upon an open lot of low flat pasture-land, known
+always as the "old swamp meadow." No other five acres on the face of the
+earth are so dear to me as this neglected field. I know its every rise
+and fall of ground, its every bog, and its lush greenness is refreshing
+even to the thought.
+
+It is a luxuriant garden of all manner of succulent and juicy
+vegetation; an outbursting extravagance of plant life of almost tropical
+exuberance. All New England's most majestic and ornamental flora seem
+congregated in its congenial soil; and even when a boy I learned to know
+and love them all, and even call them by their names.
+
+Here are towering stems of iron-weed lifting high their scattered purple
+crowns, and in their midst the woolly clumps of boneset, its white
+flowered cushions intermingling with the dense pink tufts of
+thorough-wort.
+
+On every side we overlook whole patches of these splendid blossoms, with
+their crests closely crowded in a mosaic of pink and white. And here's a
+bed of peppermint and spearmint, interspersed with flaming spikes of
+cardinal lobelia; and here a lusty plant of Indian mallow, entangled in
+a maze of gold-thread and smart-weed. Here are massive burdocks six feet
+high, and great trees of jimson-weed, with their large spiral flowers
+and thorny pods.
+
+High fronds of chain-fern rise up on every side from a jungle of
+bur-marigolds and clotburs, and tear-thumbs, with their saw-toothed
+stems and tiny bunches of pink blossoms.
+
+No inch of ground in the old swamp lot but which does its tenfold duty;
+and what it lacks in quality of produce it amply makes up in quantity.
+Even a neighboring bed of clean-washed gravel is overrun with creeping
+mallow, with its rounded leaves and little "cheeses" down among their
+shadows.
+
+[Illustration: EVEN-TIDE.]
+
+Farther on we see the lily-pond, with its surrounding swamp and its
+legion of crowded water-plants. Here are rank, massive beds of
+swamp-cabbage, and lofty cat-tails by the thousand among the bristling
+bogs of tussock-sedge and bulrush. Here are calamus patches, and alder
+thickets, and sedges without number; and the prickly carex and blue-flag
+abound on every side. There are galingales and reeds, and tall and
+graceful rushes, turtle-head and jointed scouring grass, and horse-tail,
+besides a host of other old acquaintances, whose faces are familiar, but
+whose names I never knew. But they were all my friends in boyhood. I
+knew them in the bud and in the blossom, and even in their winter
+skeletons, brown and broken in the snow. Near by there is a ditch: you
+never would know it, for it is completely hidden from view beneath an
+interlacing growth of jewel-weed. But see that gorgeous mass of deep
+scarlet that floods the farther bank! Nowhere within a circuit of miles
+around is there such a regal display of cardinal flowers as this:
+skirting the borders of the ditch for rods and rods, clustering about a
+ruined, tumbling fence, whose moss-grown pickets are almost hidden in
+the dense profusion of bloom.
+
+Then there is its airy companion, the "touch-me-not," with its
+translucent, juicy stem, and its queer little golden flowers with
+spotted throats--the "jewel-weed" we used to call it. I know not why,
+unless from the magic of its leaf, which, when held beneath the water,
+was transformed to iridescent frosted silver. We all remember its
+sensitive, jumping seed-pods, that burst even at our approach for fear
+that we should touch them; but no one can fully appreciate the beauty of
+the plant who has not seen its silvery leaf beneath the water. Here it
+justifies its name, for it is indeed a jewel.
+
+How often in those olden times have I lain down among these bulrushes
+and sedges near the lily pond, and listened to the buzzing songs of the
+crickets and the tiny katydids that swarmed the growth about me, and
+filled the air with their incessant din. I remember the little colony of
+ants that picked their way among the rushes; that gauzy dragon-fly too,
+that circled and dodged about the water's edge, now skimming close upon
+the surface, now darting out of sight, or perhaps alighting on an
+overhanging sedge, as motionless as a mounted specimen, with wings
+aslant and fully spread. "Devil's darning-needles" they were called. The
+devil may well be proud of them; for darning-needles of such precious
+metals and such exquisite design are rare indeed. They were of several
+sizes too. Some were large, and flashed the azure of the sapphire;
+others fluttered by with smoky, pearly wings, and slender bodies
+glittering in the light like animated emeralds: and another I well
+remember, a little airy thing, with a glistening sunbeam for a body, and
+wings of tiny rainbows.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+I remember how I watched the disturbed motion of the arrow-heads out in
+the water, as the cautious turtles worked their way among them, and
+crawled out upon the stump close by.
+
+Here they huddled together, a dozen or more, with heads erect, and
+turning from side to side as they surveyed the surrounding carpet of
+lily-pads, or listened to the bass-drum chorus of the great green
+bull-frogs among the pickerel-weed; and when I jumped and yelled at
+them, what a rolling, sprawling, splashing in the mud! It fairly makes
+me laugh to think of it. But there is hardly a leaf or wisp of grass in
+this old swamp lot but what brings back some old association or pleasant
+reminiscence.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+For a week thus we idled, now on the mountain, now in the meadow, while
+I, with my sketch-book and collecting-box, either whiled away the hours
+with my pencil, or left the unfinished work to pursue the tantalizing
+butterfly, or search for unsuspecting caterpillars among the weeds and
+bushes.
+
+[Illustration: SOME ART CONNOISSEURS.]
+
+[Illustration: PROFESSOR WIGGLER.]
+
+On a sprig of black alder I found one--the same little fellow as of old,
+afflicted with the peculiarities of all his progenitors. We used to call
+him "Professor Wiggler," owing to an hereditary nervous habit of
+wiggling his head from side to side when not otherwise employed. To
+this little humpbacked creature I am indebted for a great deal of past
+amusement. Distinctly I remember the whack-whack-whack on the inside of
+the old pasteboard box as the captive pets threatened to dash out their
+brains in their demonstrations at my approach. Professor Wiggler is
+really a most remarkable insect, as one might readily imagine from his
+scientific name, for in learned circles this individual is known as Mr.
+Gramatophora Trisignata. He has many strange eccentricities. At each
+moult of the skin he retains the shell of his former head on a long
+vertical filament. Two or three thus accumulate, and, as a consequence,
+in his maturer years he looks up to the head he wore when he was a
+youngster, and ponders on the flight of time and the hollowness of
+earthly things, or perhaps congratulates himself on the increased
+contents of his present shell. When fully grown, he stops eating, and
+goes into a new business. Selecting a suitable twig, he gnaws a
+cylindrical hole to its centre and follows the pith, now and then
+backing out of the tunnel, and dropping the excavated material in the
+form of little balls of sawdust. At length he emerges from the hollow,
+and again drawing himself in backward, spins a silken disk across the
+opening, and tints it with the color of the surrounding bark. Here he
+spends the winter, and comes out in a new spring suit in the following
+May. Only recently I had in my possession several of these twigs with
+their enclosed caterpillars, and in every one the color of the silken
+lid so closely matched the tint of the adjacent bark, although
+different in each, that several of my friends, even with the most
+careful scrutiny, failed to detect the deceptive spot. Whether the
+result of chance or of the instincts of the insect, I do not know; but
+certain it is that he paints with different colors under varying
+circumstances.
+
+Insect-hunting had always been a passion with me. Large collections of
+moths and butterflies had many times accumulated under my hands, only to
+meet destruction through boyish inexperience; and even in childhood the
+love for the insect and the passion for the pencil strove hard for the
+ascendency, and were only reconciled by a combination which filled my
+sketch-book with studies of insect life.
+
+There was one inhabitant of our fields which had always been to me a
+never-failing source of entertainment. There he is, the gilded tyrant. I
+see him now swinging to and fro on his glistening nest of silken
+threads, his golden yellow form glowing in bold relief against the dark
+recess in the brambles. My sketch is left in the grass, and I am soon
+seated in front of the gossamer maze. A festive grasshopper jumps up
+into my face, and makes a carom on the web. With a spasmodic snap of one
+hind leg he extricates it from its entanglement, and in another instant
+would fall from the meshes; but the agile spider is too quick for him.
+With a movement so swift as almost to elude the eye, he draws from his
+body a silver cloud of floss, and with his long hind legs throws it over
+his captive. The head and tail of the grasshopper are now further
+secured, after which the spider carefully straddles around the
+struggling insect, and bites off the other radiating webs in close
+proximity. The unlucky prey now hangs suspended across the opening. With
+business-like coolness his tormentor dangles himself from the edge of
+the torn web, and another cataract of glistening floss is thrown up and
+attached to the under side of the prisoner, after which he is turned
+round and round, as if on a spit. The stream of floss is carried from
+head to foot, and in less time than it takes to describe it the victim
+is wrapped in a silken winding-sheet, and soon meets his death from the
+poisoned fangs of his captor. Here is but one of the thousands of
+tragedies that are taking place every hour of the day in our fields.
+While deeply interested in the closing scenes of this one, I suddenly
+become aware of a shadow passing over the bushes. I turn my head, and
+meet the puzzled and pleasant gaze of Amos Shoopegg, as he stands there,
+hands in pockets, and milk-pail swinging from his wrist.
+
+[Illustration: THE TYRANT OF THE FIELDS.]
+
+"Wa'al, thar," he exclaims, banging down one brawny fist on his uplifted
+knee. "Buggin' agin, I swaow! Hain't yeu got over thet yit? What yeu kin
+find so mighty fine in them 'ere bugs beats me."
+
+"Amos," I replied, "there's a great deal more in these bugs than you
+imagine."
+
+"A pleggy sight, I suppose," he resumed. "What specie o' critter ye got
+hold on naow?" and he stretched forward his fringed and weather-beaten
+neck, and peered over the brambles. "What is't ye got
+thar--straddle-bug?" He came still nearer, and looked at the spider.
+"Wa'al, darn my pictur ef 'tain't an old yeller-belly! P'r'aps you don't
+know that them critters is pizen. Why, Eben Sanford's gal got all chawed
+up by one on 'em. Great Sneezer!" he exclaimed, taking three or four
+strides backward, with both hands uplifted. I had merely raised my hand
+and gently smoothed the spider.
+
+"Wa'al," he continued, "yen kin rub 'em daown ef yeu pleze; but fer _my_
+part, I'd ruther keep off abaout a good spittin' distance"--which was
+the Shoopegg way of expressing a length of about fifteen feet. Amos was
+crossing lots for his "caow," he said; but in spite of his plea that the
+"old heiffer" was "bellerin'" like "Sam Hill," and was "gittin' 'tarnal
+on-easy," I made him tarry sufficiently long to enable me to send him
+off a wiser man.
+
+Amos Shoopegg is a type of a large class of the native element of
+Hometown. Of course, "Shoopegg" is not his actual name. In the long line
+of his prided Puritan ancestry no one ever bore it before him. This is
+only an affectionate epithet given him by the village boys full twenty
+years ago, and it has stuck to him closer than a brother ever since, as
+those festive surnames always do. Nominally, Amos was a farmer. In
+summer he was one in fact, and could swing off as pretty a swath in
+haying as any man in town. But in the winter he changed his vocation,
+and became a disciple of the "waxed-end." All day long he could be seen,
+closeted with a little red-hot stove, plying his trade in his small,
+square shop, up near the old red school-house. Here he pounded on the
+big lapstone on his knees, or, with strap and foot-stick in position,
+punched and tugged around the edge of those marvellous brogans. He made
+slings and leather "suckers" for the boys, and furnished them with all
+the black-wax they could chew--or stow-away, to stick between the lining
+of their pockets. And the huge wooden shoe-pegs that he drove beneath
+his hammer were a sight to behold. The man who used his "cheap line of
+goods" might verily say he walked upon a wood-pile.
+
+So they dubbed him "Shoe-peg," or "Shoop" for brevity. There are others
+among his neighbors who would furnish an inexhaustible source of study
+to the student of character. There's old Rufus Fairchild, known as
+"Roof," a rotund specimen of rural jollity, his round face set in
+dishevelled locks of gray, with a twinkle in his eye and a good word for
+everybody. And there's Father Tomlinson, who keeps the post-office down
+by the dam, as genial an old fellow as ever wrapped up his throat in a
+white stock. And I might almost continue the list indefinitely. But
+there is one I must especially mention; and, now that I think of it, he
+really should have headed the list, for he stands alone--or at least he
+does _sometimes_. If you are in search of the embodiment of typical
+Erin, you need go no farther; here he is. This individual represents
+another nationality which swells the population of Hometown--the
+hard-working laborers who toil in the great factory down in the glen,
+called "Satan's Misery." The above personage is one of the best-hearted
+creatures in the town; but it is the old story, and the world to him is
+enclosed in the compass of a barrel-hoop. When last I saw him he was in
+an evident decline, but as I put my finger on his wrist I could still
+feel the pulsations of the whiskey coursing through his veins.
+
+"Look here, my good fellow," I said to him one day, "why don't you taper
+off a little? If you keep on in this way, you'll be in your grave in
+less than a month. How would you like that?"
+
+"Arrah, begorra," he replied, with a look of hopeful resignation, "if I
+cud awnly be shure o' me gude skvare dthrink in the other wurrld, oi
+wudn't moind."
+
+The record of a single evening spent in the village store, with its
+rural jargon and homespun yarns, its odd vernacular and rustic gossip,
+would make a volume as rare and unique as the characters it would
+depict.
+
+The store itself is a matchless picture in its way, and for variety in
+accessory is as rich as could be wished for. The low, murky ceiling,
+hung with all manner of earthly goods--scythes and rakes, boots and
+pails, in pendulous array; bottles and boxes, brooms and breast-pins,
+are here--in short, everything that heart could wish or thought suggest,
+from speckled calicoes to seven-cent sugar, or from a three-tined fork
+to a goose-yoke. Evening after evening, for an hour or so, I was tempted
+thither, until I found the week had gone. Sunday came again--Sunday in
+New England. The old bell swung on its wheel in the belfry, ringing out
+its call to devotion, and ere the echo had died in the recesses of the
+mountain beyond the still atmosphere reverberated with an answering peal
+from the little sister church in the valley below, as the scattered
+groups with strolling steps wend their way to "meeting," and the gay
+loads from Newborough go flitting by on the accustomed Sunday drive.
+
+Monday dawned on Hometown. It found me up and doing. I had enjoyed one
+week of glorious loafing, but work was the programme for the next. I
+went to Draper's Inn and engaged a horse and buggy "until further
+notice." "A spang-up team" he called it, and it would be up "in half a
+jiffy." We were waiting for it when it came, and what with our variety
+of luggage in the shape of canvases, color-boxes, hammocks, camp-seats,
+and easels, every bit of available space in that buggy was well
+utilized. Before the clock has struck nine, we are spinning along down
+through the village, now past the store, now over the bridge, and
+turning to the right, we glide by the little post-office, as the kind
+face of Father Tomlinson nods a "good-bye" from the door-way.
+
+A little farther, and we have left the little slope-roofed school-house
+in our path, and are soon ascending the long hill of Zoar, from which we
+look back four miles to the cliff and nestling town. In ten minutes more
+we approach the brow of a steep declivity, and the broad Housatonic
+opens up to view, winding off into the misty mountains in the distance.
+There is now a drive of half a mile along the side of a wild
+mountain-slope, where mountain-laurels grow in wild profusion, and the
+rooty, overhanging banks are tufted with rich green moss, overgrown with
+checker-berries and arbutus. The river roars far down below us, and for
+a few minutes our eyes feast on as lovely an extent of varied New
+England landscape as is easily found. And yet this is only a short
+section of one of the many matchless drives that follow the course of
+this beautiful river around the borders of Hometown.
+
+[Illustration: FAMILIAR FACES AT THE VILLAGE STORE.]
+
+Suddenly we leave the stream as it glides away on an abrupt turn beneath
+the crescent of a rocky precipice, and before we have fairly lost the
+sound of the ripples we have arrived at our journey's end. A pair of
+bars under an old butternut-tree mark the place. The carriage is backed
+to the side of the road, and the horse turned loose in the rocky meadow.
+This is Joab Nichols's "pasture lot," with fodder consisting principally
+of huge boulders, hardhack, and spleenwort; to be sure, with a stray
+relish of "butter-and-eggs" here and there, and a thousand white saucers
+of wild carrot handy to go with them. One or two trips across the field
+bring all our luggage, and we are soon enjoying cool comfort in the
+hemlock shade of a fairy grotto. Above us the babbling brook bounds and
+splashes over mossy rocks, disappearing in a mass of creamy foam, from
+under which it eddies toward us only to plunge twenty feet into a
+miniature ca�on below. Again, yonder it bubbles into a whirling pool,
+where the bordering ferns bend and nod above its buoyant surface; and
+now gliding from view beneath the tangle of drooping boughs, it
+disappears only to burst forth once more in its merry song as it rushes
+over the rapids.
+
+    "I chatter, chatter as I go,
+       To join the brimming river;
+     For men may come and men may go,
+       But I go on forever."
+
+Here in this wild retreat I have found my sylvan studio--shut in by
+fringed and fragrant evergreens, enlivened by the undergrowth of
+feathery fronds, and the shimmer of the beech, as the tracery of
+overhanging boughs trembles in the gentle breeze. Day after day finds us
+in this little paradise, and as one in luxurious hammock swings away the
+hours, now lost in fiction, now in short repose, or perhaps with busy
+needle fashions graceful figures in Kensington design, the canvas on the
+easel shows a fortnight's constant care, and the palette changes to a
+keepsake of a sunny memory--a tinted souvenir.
+
+For two weeks the gurgling brook sang to us in this wild retreat. As
+evening after evening closed in upon us, the unfinished pictures were
+stowed away in horizontal crevices between the rocks, and, with hammock
+still swinging in the trees, we left the gloom to the hooting owl, that
+evening after evening, with tremulous cry, proclaimed the twilight hour
+from the tall hemlock overhead. Ere long the murmuring Housatonic
+shimmers below us in the moonlight as we hurry on our homeward way, and
+the distant lights of Hometown are soon seen glimmering; through the
+evening mist. The old bridge now rumbles through the darkness its signal
+of our return, and the host of Draper's Inn is seen awaiting us at the
+illumined door-way. A quiet, cosy supper, and in the rays of a gleaming
+lantern, held aloft to light our path, we follow our lengthening shadows
+to the old front gate. Repeat this day's record fourteen times, and you
+have the sum of a happy experience, with but one drawback: it had an
+end--an end that would have left its reaction, were it not for the store
+of increased pleasure that awaited us for the few closing days of our
+pilgrimage--for me, at least, although in other scenes, its climax.
+
+[Illustration: A SOUVENIR.]
+
+Many like me are happy in the possession of a dear old homestead; but
+there are few, I ween, who enjoy the blessing of a double inheritance
+such as has been my lot--two homes which share my equal devotion, two
+homes without a choice; the one this beloved heirloom in Hometown, and
+the other--But you shall see. We shall be there soon, for the little
+satchel is packed, and the carriage awaits us at the gate. A drive of
+eighteen miles is before us--a beautiful series of pictures. Down
+through the village, past the old red mill and smithy, with its ringing
+anvil, and we are soon winding our way through a sombre glen. Presently
+we catch glimpses of the great rumbling factory, with its clouds of
+smoke and steam melting into the wooded mountain above. The old yellow
+bridge now creaks under our approach, and ere we are aware a sudden turn
+leads us out of a wilderness on to the shore of the beautiful
+Housatonic. For a few minutes the rushing water trickles through the
+wheels as over jolting stones our pony leads us through the ford, and,
+refreshed by the cool bath, makes a lively sally up the eastern bank.
+For ten miles the Housatonic guides us around its winding curves through
+a path of ever-changing beauty, now shut in by the dense, dark
+evergreens, and again emerging into a bower of silvery beeches, where
+the roadway is carpeted with mottled shadows, and the dappled trunks
+flicker with the softened glints of sunlight. Here we come upon a sandy
+stretch where the road is sunken between two sloping banks thick-set
+with mulleins and sweet-fern, and overrun with creeping brambles. The
+stone-wall above is wreathed in trailing woodbine, and along its crest
+we see the swaying tips of wheat from the edge of the field just beyond;
+and here we pass a border of whortleberry bushes, laden with their
+fruit. Now it is a hazel thicket crowding close upon our wheels, and
+among the leaves we see the brown, tanned husks of the ripening nuts,
+almost ready for that troop of boys and girls that you may be sure are
+watching and waiting for them.
+
+The old gray toll-bridge soon nears to view, with its two long spans and
+fantastic beams. Farther on, peering from its willows, stands the ruined
+cider-mill, with its long moss-grown lever jutting through the trees--an
+old-time haunt, now crumbling in decay. But we only catch a glimpse of
+it, for in a moment more we are shut in beneath another bower of beeches
+and white birches, where the road takes a steep ascent, and the rippling
+river sends up its sunny reflections among the leaves and tree-trunks.
+When once more upon a level, it is to look ahead through a long avenue
+of shade--a leafy canopy two miles in length--with only an occasional
+break to open up some charming bit of landscape across the water. In
+these two miles of umbrage you may see types of almost every tree that
+grows within the boundaries of New England. Old veteran beeches are
+here, their trunks disfigured with scars that once were names cut in the
+bark. Here are spots that look like half obliterated figures; and here
+are spreading hieroglyphs that tell, perhaps, of old-time vows plighted
+at the trysting-tree; and here's a semblance of a heart, a broken heart
+indeed, if its present form be taken as a prophetic symbol.
+
+[Illustration: ALONG THE HOUSATONIC.]
+
+There are magnificent rock-maples too, and silver-maples that shake down
+their little swarms of winged seeds. Tulip-trees and spotted buttonwoods
+grow side by side, and quivering aspens and white poplars are seen at
+every clearing. There are yellow birch-trunks frayed out with the wind,
+and great snake-like stems of grape-vine, that twist and writhe among
+the branches of the trees. There are hop hornbeams, and chestnuts,
+and--But there is no need to enumerate them all. Just think of every New
+England tree you ever knew, and add a score besides, and you will form a
+slight idea of the varied verdure that hems in this charming Housatonic
+drive, with its rocky roadside embroidered in trickling moss and
+fumitory; and rose-flowered mountain-raspberry growing so close upon the
+road that your pony takes a wayward nip, and plucks its blossomed tip as
+he passes.
+
+Now comes an open level, with wide, expansive views, where every turn
+upon the road brings its fresh surprise, as some new combination of hazy
+mountain landscape towers above the distant river bend; and the flitting
+cloud shadows lead their capricious, undulating chase across the wooded
+slopes. The roadsides here are full of everchanging beauties too, with
+their trimmings of ornamental sunflowers, their picturesque old fences,
+and their clumps of purple-berried poke-weed, with here and there a
+yellow patch of toad-flax, and aromatic tufts of tansy hugging close
+against the fence. Even that clambering screen of clematis that trails
+over the shrubbery yonder cannot hide the scattered tips of crimson that
+already have appeared among the sumach leaves.
+
+There are a thousand things one meets upon a country ride or ramble
+which at the time are allowed to pass with but a glance. The eye is
+surfeited and the mind confused with the continual pageantry. But months
+afterward, in the reveries about our winter fires, they all come back to
+us, with the added charm of reminiscence; and whether it be a crystal
+spring among a bank of ferns, or a thistle-top with its fluttering
+butterfly and inevitable bumblebee rolling in the tufted blossom, or a
+squirrel running along a rail, or perhaps a rattling grasshopper
+hovering in mid-air above the dusty road--no matter what, they all are
+welcome memories at our fireside, and draw our hearts still closer to
+the loveliness of nature.
+
+This Housatonic road is rich in just such pastoral pictures. Two hours
+on such a course soon pass, when our pony whinnies at the welcome sight
+of the old log water-trough beyond--a landmark old and green when I was
+yet a boy, still nestling in its rocky bed, shadowed by the drooping
+hemlocks, still lavish with its overflowing bounty.
+
+This benefactor by the way-side marks a turning-point in our journey, as
+we leave the grandeur of the Housatonic to pursue our way by the nooks
+and dingles of the wild Shepaug--a bubbling tributary whose happy waters
+sing of a varied experience. Now placid through the blossoming fields,
+now plunging down the precipice to ripple through a verdant valley,
+where, hemmed in at every turn, it seeks its only liberty beneath the
+rumbling of the old mill-wheels; and at last, ere it loses its identity
+in the swelling tide, leaving a mischievous and tumultuous record as it
+pours through the rocky ca�on, and with surging, whirling volume carves
+huge caverns and fantastic statues in its massive bed of stone. Even now
+through the dark forest beyond we can hear the muffled roar, and for
+nearly a league farther as we ascend the long hill it comes to us in
+fitful whispers wafted on the changing breeze. Reaching the summit of
+this incline, we find ourselves on a hill-top wide and far-reaching, on
+right and left losing itself in wooded wold, while in front the level
+road diminishes to a point, surmounted by blue hills in the distance.
+Two miles on a pastoral hill-top, where golden-rod and tall spir�as
+cluster along the lichen-covered walls, where orange-lilies gleam among
+the alders, with now and then a blazing group of butterfly-plant or a
+dusty clump of milk-weed. The air is laden with the nut-like odor of the
+everlasting flowers all around us. The buzzing drum of the harvest-fly
+vibrates from every tree, and we hear the tinkling bell and lowing of
+the cattle in some neighboring field. Farther on, we look down from the
+edge of the plateau through the length of Happy Valley, with its winding
+stream, its barns and busy mills, its sunny homes glinting through the
+summer haze. On the left the lofty shadowed cliff known as "Steep-rock"
+towers against the evening sky, and again we catch the murmuring whiffs
+of the rushing stream in its sweeping bend beneath the overhanging
+precipice. A sharp turn round a jutting hill-side, and I meet a prospect
+that quickens the heart and makes the eye grow dim. There beyond, three
+miles "as flies the laden bee," I linger on the welcome sight, as on its
+hill-top fair two steeples side by side betray the hidden town, my
+second home.
+
+How lightly did I appreciate the fortunate journey when, twenty summers
+ago, I followed this road for the first time, when a boy of ten years,
+on my way to an unknown village, I looked across the landscape to the
+little spires on that distant hill! Little did I dream of the six years
+of unmixed happiness and precious experience that awaited me in that
+little Judea! I only knew that I was sadly quitting a happy home on my
+way to "boarding-school"--a school called the Snuggery, taught by a Mr.
+Snug, in a little village named Snug Hamlet, about twenty miles from
+Hometown.
+
+There are some experiences in the life of every one which, however
+truthful, cannot be told but to elicit the doubtful nod or the warning
+finger of incredulity. They were such experiences as these, however,
+that made up the sum of my early life in that happy refuge called in
+modern parlance a "boarding-school"--a name as empty, a word as weak and
+tame in its significance, as poverty itself; no doubt abundantly
+expressive in its ordinary application, but here it is a mockery and a
+satire. This is not a "boarding-school;" it is a _household_, whose
+memories moisten the eye and stir the soul; to which its scattered
+members through the fleeting years look back as to a neglected home,
+with father and mother dear, whom they long once more to meet as in the
+tenderness of boyhood days; a cherished remembrance which, like the
+"house upon a hill, cannot be hid," but sends abroad its light unto many
+hearts who in those early days sought the loving shelter; a bright star
+in the horizon of the past, a glow that ne'er grows dim, but only
+kindles and brightens with the flood of years. Yes, yes; I know it
+sounds like a dash of sentiment, but words of mine are feeble and
+impotent indeed when sought for the expression of an attachment so fond,
+of a love so deep.
+
+Fifteen years ago, with a parting full of sorrow, I rode away from Snug
+Hamlet yonder in the village stage--a day that brought a depression that
+lingered long, and lingers still. Glowing, sunset-tinted fields glide by
+unnoticed now, as, with eyes intent on the distant hill, I look back
+through the lapse of time. A mile has gone without my knowing it, when a
+joyous laugh awakens me from my day-dreams. Two boys approach us on the
+road ahead, and, what might seem very strange to you, one wears a wooden
+boot-jack strung around his neck and dangling on his breast; but he
+carries his burden lightly and cheerfully. As they near the carriage I
+draw the rein, and they both pause by the roadside.
+
+"Well, boys," I ask, "where do _you_ hail from?"
+
+"We're from the Snuggery, sir."
+
+"I thought so," said I, with a laugh, in which they both joined. "But
+what are you doing with that boot-jack?"
+
+"Oh, you see," said one, with a roguish smile, "Charlie and I were
+having a little tussle in the sitting-room, and he picked up Mr. Snug's
+boot-jack in the corner and began to pummel me with it; and jest as we
+were having it the worst, and were rollin' on the floor, Mr. Snug came
+in and caught us in the job, and now we're _payin'_ for it."
+
+"How so?" I inquired, well knowing what would be the response.
+
+"Oh, you see, Mr. Snug held a diagnosis over our remains, and said he
+thought we were suffering, for the want of a little exercise, and
+ordered us on a trip to Judd's Bridge."
+
+"And the boot-jack?"
+
+"Oh, he said that Charlie might want to play with that some more on the
+way, and that he'd better fetch it along;" and with a mischievous
+snicker at his encumbered companion, he led him along the road in an
+hilarious race, while we enjoyed a hearty laugh at their expense.
+
+And this a _punishment_! Yes, here is an introduction to one phase of a
+system of correction as unique as the matchless institution in which it
+had its birth--a system without a parallel in the annals of chastisement
+or school government, and which for thirty years has proved its wisdom
+in the household management of the Snuggery.
+
+"To Judd's Bridge!" How natural the sound of those words! How many
+times have I myself been on that same pilgrimage of penance! The
+destination of these boys is a rickety but picturesque structure which
+spans the Shepaug five miles below Snug Hamlet. Through three decades it
+looks back to its host of acquaintances of those romping lads who, in
+the superfluity of exuberant spirits, made havoc and din in the
+household. The dose is administered with wise discrimination both as to
+the symptoms and the needs and strength of the patient. It always proves
+a sterling remedy, and sometimes, indeed, a sugar-coated one, as in the
+case of these two ruddy, rollicking examples.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Judd's Bridge is but one of a score of places which serve in the
+administration of Snuggery discipline. It is, however, the one most
+remote, and its ten-mile journey is reserved as an heroic dose for
+extraordinary cases, after other prescriptions have been tried without
+avail. Next on the list comes Moody Barn, with "open doors" every day in
+the week to its frequent callers. This old settler, gray and
+weather-beaten, marks a point one mile from the Snuggery, where the
+still waters of the Shepaug run slow and deep--the favorite
+"swimming-hole" of the Snuggery.
+
+[Illustration: THE HAUNTED MILL.]
+
+And then there's Kirby Corners, a mere stroll of a few minutes round the
+square of a rock-bound pasture--just enough to give yourself time to
+think a bit and congratulate yourself on what you have escaped. All
+these, and several more, are vivid in my memory; friends, old and
+intimate. And here's another, right before us by the roadside. For
+several minutes through the tantalizing trees we have heard its rumbling
+wheel, its reiterating clank, and busy saw; and now, as its familiar
+outline looms up against the evening sky, the vision seems to darken, as
+on that night of long ago, when through the shadowy mystery of the
+moonlit gloom I stole my way among the sheltering golden-rod; when the
+lofty flume, like a huge horned creature, seemed to stride athwart me in
+the darkness, and the fitful boyish fancy saw strange phantoms in the
+floating, melting mist. This ancient structure reposes in a verdant dell
+at the foot of Snug Hamlet Hill. A choice of two roads lies before
+us--one short and direct, the other a roundabout approach. A sudden
+impulse leads me into the latter. On right and left I see the same old
+rocks and trees. There stands the aged beech to whose gnarled and hollow
+trunk I traced the agile flying-squirrel, and with suffocating flame and
+smoke drove him from his hiding-place. Here between large rocks and
+stones the trout-stream runs its course, now pouring in small cataracts,
+now eddying into still, dark nooks, where in those by-gone times I
+dropped the line of expectancy, but showed the clumsiness of adversity.
+A few minutes later, and we are gliding again by the dark Shepaug, now
+flowing calm and silent beneath a rugged bank, wild and umbrageous,
+where the swarm of katydids, with grating discord, maintain their old
+dispute, that never-ending feud. The wheels turn noiselessly in the
+shifting sand as we pursue our way. The low gray fog steals lightly over
+the lily-pads, floating into seclusion beneath the sheltering boughs,
+or, like an evanescent spirit, borne upon the evening breath, is lifted
+from the gloom, and slowly melts into the twilight sky. The solitary
+whippoorwill from his mysterious haunt, perhaps in yonder tree, perhaps
+in the mountain loneliness beyond, proclaims with dismal cry his
+oft-repeated wail. And as we ascend the darkening path, through the
+still night air, in measured cadence long and sad, we hear the toll of
+the distant knell. Threescore-and-ten its numbers tell of the earthly
+years--a curfew requiem for the dead. Even as we pass the little chapel
+at the summit of the hill, and the bell has scarcely ceased its
+melancholy tidings, we hear the shouts and merry laughs of the boys on
+the village green. Presently its broad expanse, shut in by twinkling
+windows and massive trees, spreads out before us, as a clear and ringing
+voice, like that of old, echoes through the growing darkness, "One
+hundred! Nothing said, coming ahead!" and a dim figure steals cautiously
+from the steps of the old white church to seek in the sequestered
+hiding-places. With a heart that fairly thumps, I urge my pony onward
+across the green, and ere he slackens his pace I am at my journey's end.
+The dear old Snuggery, with its gables manifold and quaint, its
+fantastic wings and towers, stands there before me, the glowing windows
+beaming through the maples. Leaving our pony in willing hands, we enter
+the gate, and are soon upon the wide porch.
+
+[Illustration: PURSUERS AND PURSUED.]
+
+It is eight o'clock, and the Snuggery is hushed in the quiet of the
+study hour, and as we look through the windows we see the little groups
+of studious lads bending over their books. Turning a corner on the
+piazza, we are confronted with a tall hexagonal structure at its farther
+end. This is the Tower, the lower room of which is consecrated to the
+cosy retirement of Mr. and Mrs. Snug. The door leading to the porch is
+open, and, as if awakening from a nap in which the past fifteen years
+have been a dream, I listen to the same dear voice. I approach nearer.
+Under the glow of a student's lamp I look upon the beloved face, the
+flowing hair and beard now silvered with the lapse of years--a face of
+unusual firmness, but whose every line marks the expression of a tender,
+loving nature, and of a large and noble heart. Near him another sits--a
+helpmeet kind and true, cherished companion in a happy, useful life.
+Into her lap a nestling lad has climbed; and as she strokes the curly
+head and looks into the chubby face, I see the same expression as of
+old, the same motherly tenderness and love beaming from the large gray
+eyes.
+
+Mr. Snug is leaning back in his easy-chair, and two boys are standing up
+before him; one of them is speaking, evidently in answer to a question.
+
+"I called him a galoot, sir."
+
+"You called George a galoot, and then he threw the base-ball club at
+you--is that it?"
+
+"Yes, sir," interrupted George; "but I was only playing, sir."
+
+"Yes," resumed the voice of Mr. Snug, "but that club went with
+considerable force, and landed over the fence, and made havoc in Deacon
+Farish's onion-bed; and that reminds me that the deacon's onion-bed is
+overrun with weeds. Now, Willie," continued Mr. Snug, after a moment's
+hesitation, with eyes closed, and head thrown back against the chair,
+"Saturday morning--to-morrow, that is--directly after breakfast, you go
+out into the grove and call names to the big rock for half an hour.
+Don't stop to take breath; and don't call the same name twice. Your
+vocabulary will easily stand the drain. You understand?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"And, George," continued Mr. Snug, with deliberate, easy intonation,
+"to-morrow morning, at the same time, you present yourself politely to
+Deacon Farish, tell him that I sent you, and ask him to escort you to
+his onion-bed. After which you will go carefully to work and pull out
+all the weeds. You understand, sir?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"And then you will both report to me as usual." And with a pleasant
+smile, which was reflected in both their faces, the erring youngsters
+were dismissed. Before the door has closed behind them we are standing
+in the door-way. Here I draw the curtain; for who but one of its own
+household could understand a welcome at the Snuggery?
+
+Those of my old school-mates who read this meagre sketch will know the
+happiness of such a meeting; but others less fortunate in the
+recollections of school-life can only look for its counterpart in an
+affectionate welcome in their own homes, for the Snuggery _is_ a home to
+all who ever dwelt within its gates. Seated in the familiar cosiness,
+and surrounded by the friends of my school-days, the hours fly fast and
+pleasantly. There is plenty to talk about. Here is a village full of
+good people of whom I wish to learn, and there are many far-off chums of
+whom I carry tidings. A bell rings in the cupola as one by one, from the
+buzz in the outer rooms, boys large and small seek our seclusion for the
+accustomed good-night adieu; and ere another hour has passed forty
+sleepy urchins are packed away in their snug quarters. The evening runs
+on into midnight, as with stories of the past, its pains and penalties,
+its remembrances, now humorous now sad by turns, we recall the good old
+times; and the "wee sma' hours" are already upon us as we reluctantly
+retire from the goodly company to our rooms across the way.
+
+[Illustration: TOLLING FOR THE DEAD.]
+
+The next morning finds us in the midst of a merry load, with Mr. Snug as
+a driver; and many and varied were the beauties that opened up before us
+on that charming ride! Snug Hamlet, once called Judea, in the qualities
+of its landscape as well as in everything else, is unique. Stripped of
+all its old associations, it presents to the artistic eye a combination
+of attractions scarcely to be equalled in the boundaries of New England.
+Situated itself on the brow of an abrupt hill, where its picturesque
+homes cluster about a broad open green, a few minutes' drive in any
+direction reveals a surrounding panorama of the rarest loveliness. Five
+hundred feet below us, winding in and out, now beneath leafy tangles,
+now under quaint little bridges, and again reposing placidly in broad
+mill-ponds, the happy Shepaug lends to a lovely valley its usefulness
+and beauty. Turning in another direction, we pass the Snuggery
+ball-ground, animated with the shouts of victory; and descending into a
+vale of almost primeval wildness, we continue our way up the ascent of
+"Artist's Hill," from whose summit on every side, as far as the eye can
+reach, the landscape softens into the hazy horizon. Returning, we pass
+through a ruined waste, where, three months before, the fierce tornado
+swooped down in its fiendish fury. On every side we see its awful
+evidences. Huge oaks, like brittle pipe-stems, snapped from their
+moorings; sturdy hickories, mere play-things in the gale, twisted into
+shreds.
+
+[Illustration: WRECKS OF THE TORNADO.]
+
+Every morning saw me on some new drive, either with a wagon full of
+merry company, or as alone with Mr. Snug we held our quiet _t�te-�-t�te_
+on wheels, living over the olden times. In the afternoon I strolled by
+myself through the old and eloquent scenes. A volume could not hold the
+memories they revived--no, not even those of yonder barn alone. Even as
+I sit making my pencil-sketch, its reminiscences seem to float across
+the vision. Distinctly it recalls the events of one evening years ago.
+It was at about the sunset hour one Friday. I was quietly sitting on a
+lounge in the parlor talking to Cuthbert Harding, who was standing in
+front of me. Presently the door opens, and the tall figure of Dick Shin
+enters. Dick and I were antipodes in every sense of the word. Physically
+we were as a match and a billiard ball, he being the lucifer. He was
+also my _b�te noire_, and he never missed an opportunity to vent his
+spite. Accordingly he stalked toward us, and with a violent push sent
+Cuthbert pell-mell on to me. In falling, he stepped heavily on my foot,
+and hurt me severely, which accounted for my excited expression as I
+threw him from me.
+
+Of course Mr. Snug had to come in just at this time, and seeing us in
+what looked to him very like a fight, he took us firmly by the ears and
+stood us side by side, while I ventured to explain.
+
+"Not a word!" exclaimed he, in a tone there was no mistaking. "You two
+boys may cool off on a trip to Moody Barn, after which you will report
+to me in the Tower. Now go."
+
+Whatever may have been the state of my mind a few moments before, I was
+now mad in earnest, and with every bit of my latent obstinacy aroused, I
+sauntered out on to the porch.
+
+"Cool off, old boy," whispered a grating voice at my side, as I turned
+and met the gaze of Dick Shin, motioning with his thumb in the direction
+of Moody Barn--"cool off; you need it;" and his ample mouth stretched
+into a sneering grin.
+
+I had already formed an intention, but now it was a resolve.
+
+"Cuthbert," said I to my quiet and less choleric companion, when some
+distance down the road, "I am not going on that trip."
+
+"Not going!" replied he, with surprise; "why, you'll _have_ to go."
+
+"But I _won't_ go, and that settles it. It's confounded unjust that
+we're sent, anyhow, and I don't propose to stand it."
+
+"I think so too," answered Cuthbert, with hesitating emphasis; "but
+what'll we do? We'll have to report to Mr. Snug, you know; that's the
+_worst_ of it."
+
+"Well, I'll be spokesman, and I'll _lie_ before I'll go on that trip."
+
+I was boiling over with righteous wrath, but Cuthbert never was known to
+boil; he only simmered a little, but readily seconded my plan. We
+stopped at Kirby Corners, and there, secluded from view in the bushes,
+we spent the interval. Cuthbert had a watch, and by the light of the
+rising moon we were enabled to fix the full period for the trip. One
+hour and a half we allowed--an abundant limit. During this time I had
+completely "cooled off," and had schooled myself to that point where I
+could tell a lie with a smooth face and a clear conscience.
+Accordingly, when the time came, we appeared at the door of the Tower.
+Mr. Snug was sitting in his accustomed place, and we entered and stood
+before him.
+
+[Illustration: PASSING THOUGHTS.]
+
+"Well, sir," said he, with a polite bow of the head, dropping his paper
+and looking up at us.
+
+"Mr. Snug, we have come to report," said I, fearlessly. "We have been to
+Moody Barn."
+
+Instantly Mr. Snug straightened himself up in his chair, pushed back
+the gray locks from his high forehead, and, with an expression that I
+never shall forget, glared at me from under the frowning eyebrows.
+
+"_You lie, sir!_" he exclaimed, in thundering tones that fairly made my
+hair stand on end, while Cuthbert trembled from head to foot; then
+followed a brief moment of consternation that seemed an age. "Now go!"
+continued he, as with an emphatic nod of the head he motioned toward the
+door. Sheepish and crest-fallen, we slunk away from the room. It is
+needless to say that we went this time. Through the darkness, by the aid
+of a lantern, we picked our way, as with theories numerous and ingenious
+we strove to account for that vociferous reception.
+
+Late that night we held an experience meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Snug in
+the Tower, and if I remember right there were a few tears that fell, and
+many apologies and good resolves, and as the true state of the case
+dawned on Mr. Snug there was an evident twinge of regret on his kind
+face.
+
+On the following morning (Saturday) there was a jolly party of youths
+leaving the Snuggery for a day's boating at the lake. Dick Shin was
+among them; and just as he was passing out the gate, a youngster
+approaches him and taps him on the shoulder. "You are hereby arrested,
+sir, on the orders of Mr. Snug."
+
+With an anxious and innocent expression Dick follows his juvenile
+constable into the Tower, and his companions stroll along after to
+ascertain the cause of the detention. We pass over the brief but amusing
+trial, in which the prisoner, with the innocence of a little lamb,
+pleaded his cause.
+
+"You _stumbled_, did you?" said Mr. Snug. "Well, you ought to know, sir,
+by this time that I don't allow young men to stumble in that way in my
+house. These two boys have suffered through your admitted clumsiness."
+Here Mr. Snug paused in a moment's thought. "Dick Shin," he continued,
+"I sent these innocent young gentlemen on two trips to Moody Barn--that
+makes four miles for Bigson and four miles for Harding, together making
+eight that they walked on your account. Now you may put down your
+fishing-pole, and 'stumble' along on the road to Judd's Bridge, which
+will give you two extra miles in which to think over your sins. And to
+make sure"--here Mr. Snug arose and went to the closet--"you may take
+this hatchet along with you, and bring me back a good big chip from the
+end of the long bridge beam. I shall ride over that way to-morrow and
+see whether it fits. You understand?"
+
+"Yes, sir," replied the injured voice of Dick Shin. "But, Mr. Snug,
+can't I put off that penance until Monday?"
+
+"No, sir," replied Mr. Snug, with a beaming smile and a bow of the head.
+"This is a lovely morning for contrite meditation. Go--_instantly_."
+
+Two hours later saw a demonstrative individual threatening to chop down
+the whole side of a bridge, while ten miles to the northward the placid
+surface of Waramaug rippled to the oars, and the lofty mountain-sides
+echoed with the shouts of a merry holiday.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+But all things must have an end. The school-days ended, and so did this
+memorable vacation. A letter breaks the charm: insatiate publisher! Once
+more through the winding paths of the Housatonic, and I leave the
+loveliness of Hometown for the metropolis of brick and stone, there to
+resume the old routine.
+
+
+
+
+AUTUMN.
+
+[Illustration: THE WANING]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+I am sitting alone upon a wooded knoll at our old farm at Hometown.
+Above me a venerable oak holds aloft its dome of bronze-green verdure,
+and on either side the gnarled and knotty branches bend low, and trail
+their rustling leaves among the tufts of waving grass that fringe the
+slope around me.
+
+It is a spot endeared to me from earliest memory, a loved retreat whose
+every glimpse beneath the overhanging boughs has left its impress, whose
+every feature of undulating field, of wooded mountain, and winding
+meadow-brook I have long been able to summon up at will before my closed
+eyes, as though a mirror of the living picture now before me. And what
+is this picture?
+
+It is an enchanted vision of nature's autumn loveliness--a vision of
+peace and tranquil resignation that lingers like a poem in the memory.
+It is a glorious October day, one of those rarest and loveliest of days
+when all nature seems transfigured, when a golden, misty veil swings
+from the heavens in a charmed haze, through which the commonest and most
+prosaic thing seems spiritualized and glorified. The summer's full
+fruition is past and gone, the dross has been consumed; and in the
+lingering life, whose yielding flush now lends its sweet expression to
+the declining year, we see the type of perfect trust and hope that finds
+a fitting emblem in the dim horizon, where heaven and earth are wedded
+in a golden haze, where purple hills melt softly in the sky. It is a day
+when one may dream with open eyes, and whose day-dreams haunt the memory
+as sweet realities. The sky is filled with rolling, fleecy clouds, whose
+flat receding bases seem to float upon a transparent amber sea, from
+whose depths I look through into the blue air beyond.
+
+Below me an ancient orchard skirts the borders of the knoll. Its boughs
+are crimson studded, and the ground beneath is strewn with the bright
+red fruit. They mark the minutes as they fall, running the gauntlet of
+the craggy twigs and bounding upon the slope beneath. Beyond the orchard
+stretch the low, flat meadow lands, set with alders and swamp-maples,
+with swaying willows, now enclosing, now revealing the graceful curves
+of the quiet stream as it winds in and out among the overhanging
+foliage. Soon it is lost beneath a wooded hill, where an old square
+tower and factory-bell betray the hiding-place of the glassy pond that
+sends its splashing water-fall across the rocks beneath the old town
+bridge. Looking down upon this bridge, Mount Pisgah, with its rugged
+cliff, is seen rising bold and stern against the sky, above a broad and
+bright mosaic of elms and maples, spreading from the grove of oaks near
+by in an unbroken expanse, to the very foot of the precipice, with here
+and there a sunny cupola or gable peering out among the branches, or a
+snowy steeple lifting high its golden cross or weather-vane glittering
+in the sun. The mountain-side is lit up with its autumn glow of
+intermingled maples, oaks, and beeches, with its changeless ledges of
+jutting rock, and dense, defiant pines standing like veteran bearded
+sentinels in perpetual vigilance.
+
+All this comes to me in a single glimpse beneath the branches. But there
+are others, where undulating meadows, with their flowing lines of walls
+and fences, lead the eye through soft gradations to distant purple
+hills, through thrifty farms, with barns and barracks and rowen fields
+with browsing cattle, and ruddy buckwheat patches, where the flocks of
+village pigeons congregate among the cradle marks, in quest of scattered
+kernels shaken from the sheaves.
+
+There is a tiny lake near by that nestles among the hill-side farms,
+where sloping pastures and fields of yellow, rustling corn glide almost
+to the water's edge. So sensitive and sympathetic is this little sheet
+of water that I christened it one day Chameleon Lake, for it wears a
+different expression for every phase of season or freak of weather, and
+always dwells in harmony with the landscape which encloses it. In cloudy
+days it frowns as cold as steel. In days of sunshine it is as bright and
+blue as the sky itself, or shimmers like a shield of burnished silver.
+And now it is a flood of autumn gold, carrying from shore to shore a
+maze of ripples laden with opaline reflections of intermingled glints
+from cloud and sky, and of the gold and ruby colored foliage along its
+banks.
+
+But this knoll and all these farms are not mine alone. They are such as
+I should hope might lurk in the memory of almost any one who looks back
+to early days among New England hills.
+
+[Illustration: AN OCTOBER DAY.]
+
+This old oak-tree, whose furrowed bark I lean upon, was a hardy
+patriarch when first I sought its shade. Its added years have scarcely
+changed a feature or modified a line in its old-time noble expression.
+As I look up, its great open arms spread out against the sky exactly as
+they did when I lolled beneath their shelter and watched the drifting
+clouds of twenty years ago sail through them in the blue above. Even the
+jagged furrows in the bark I seem to recognize. Here, too, is that same
+spreading scale of greenish lichen that fain will grow upon the trunk,
+as if I had not often picked it all to pieces in my early idling. The
+same round oak-gall rests on the bed of leaves in the hollow between the
+rocks near by, as though it had forgotten how a dozen years ago I
+cracked its polished shell and sent its spongy contents to the winds.
+
+And here comes that veritable ant creeping through the grass at my
+elbow--now on the root, now on the bark, exploring every crack and
+crevice in his hurried search. I wonder if the little fellow will ever
+find what he has been looking for so long. And here's a friend of his
+coming down. They stop and wag their antenn� in a moment's conversation.
+I wonder what they said. I always _did_ wonder when I watched them do
+the same thing on this very spot a score of years ago. The soft waving
+grass whispers about my ears as it did then, and I hear the low trumpet
+of the nuthatch as he creeps about in the tree o'erhead. Easily may one
+forget the lapse of time in such a place as this, where every leaf, and
+twig, and blade of grass conspire to breed forgetfulness of later years.
+Hark! that shrill tattoo again! The tree-toad. Yes, that same recluse in
+his mysterious hiding-place, seeking by his tantalizing trill to renew
+that game of hide-and-seek we left off so long ago--in those eager days
+when every stick and stone upon the knoll was overturned in my zeal to
+find his whereabouts. There he goes again! louder and more shrill. But
+now I realize the effect of time, for I only sit and listen to his
+oft-repeated call. Formerly that sound was like a galvanic thrill that
+electrified every nerve and muscle in my physiology. No, I'll not hunt
+for you again, my musical young friend; besides, the odds would be
+against you now, for I know more about tree-toads than I once did, and
+you wouldn't see me hunting on the ground as in the olden days. Besides,
+you're getting bold; there is no need of hunting, for in that last toot
+you gave yourself away. Even now my eyes are fixed upon the hole in
+yonder hollow limb, and I see your tiny form clinging to the rotten wood
+within the opening. What _would_ I not have given _once_ to have thought
+of that soggy hole!
+
+[Illustration: A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL.]
+
+Near by a spreading yew monopolizes a rocky bit of ground, its foliage
+creeping above a silvery gray bed of branching moss, whose pillowy tufts
+spread almost to my feet. This was my fairy forest of tiny trees. Here I
+found the fairies' cups and torches, and even now I can see their
+scarlet tips scattered here and there among the gray; and fragile little
+parasols, too--it were an insult, indeed, to designate such dainty
+things as these by the name of toadstools. Beyond this bed of moss a
+scrubby growth of whortleberry takes possession of the ground. The
+bushes are now bare of fruit, but ruddy with their autumn blushes,
+tingeing the surface of the knoll with a delicate coral pink. This
+thicket extends far down upon the slope, even encroaching upon the
+wheel-ruts of the lane, and across again, until cut short by an ancient
+tumbling line of lichen-covered stones, a landmark which has long since
+yielded up its claim as a barrier of protection to the old orchard it
+encloses, now only a moss-grown pile, with every chink and crevice a
+nestling-place of some searching tendril, fern, or clambering vine. For
+rods and rods it creeps along beneath the laden apple-trees, skirting
+the borders of this old farm lane, and finally hides away among a clump
+of cedars a few hundred feet away.
+
+Of all the picturesque in nature, what is there, after all, that so wins
+one's deeper sympathies as the ever-changing pictures of a rustic lane
+or roadside, with its weather-beaten walls and fences, and their
+rambling growth of weeds and creeping vines? How sweet the sense of near
+companionship awakened by these charming way-side pastorals that
+accompany you in your saunterings, and reach out to touch you as you
+pass--a sense of friendly fellowship that breathes a silent greeting in
+the most deserted paths or loneliest of by-ways!
+
+Show me a ruined wall or a rutted zigzag fence, and I will show you a
+string of pearls, or rather, if in these later months, a fringe of gems,
+for the autumn fence is set in wreaths of rubies and glowing sapphires.
+Follow its rambling course, now through the field, now skirting swampy
+fallows, now by rustic lanes and cornfields and over rocky pastures, and
+you will follow a lead that will take you through the rarest bits of
+nature's autumn landscape.
+
+Even in this lane, at the foot of the knoll below us, see the brilliant
+luxuriance of clustered bitter-sweet draping the side of that clump of
+cedars! It is only an indication of the beauty that envelops this lane
+for a full half mile beyond. Every angle of its rude rail fence encloses
+a lovely pastoral, each a surprise and a contrast to its neighbor.
+
+Right here before us, what a beginning! Hold up your hands on either
+side, and shut out the surroundings. Such is the glimpse I always long
+to paint from nature, and yet how almost maddening is the result! Rather
+would I drink it all in and fix its every feature in my mind, and paint
+it from its memory, when the presence of the living thing before me
+shall not mock my efforts and put to shame the crude creations of oil
+and pigment.
+
+See how the cool gray rails are relieved against that rich dark
+background of dense olive juniper, how they hide among the prickly
+foliage! Look at that low-hanging branch which so exquisitely conceals
+the lowest rail as it emerges from its other side, and spreads out among
+the creeping briers that wreathe the ground with their shining leaves
+of crimson and deep bronze! Could any art more daringly concentrate a
+rhapsody of color than nature has here done in bringing up that gorgeous
+spray of scarlet sumach, whose fern-like pinnate leaves are so richly
+massed against that background of dark evergreens? And even in that
+single branch see the wondrous gradation of color, from purest green to
+purplish olive, and olive melting into crimson, and then to scarlet, and
+through orange into yellow, and all sustaining in its midst the
+clustered cone of berries of rich maroon! Verily, it were almost an
+affront to sit down before such a shrine and attempt to match it in
+material pigment. A passing sketch, perhaps, that shall serve to aid the
+memory in the retirement of the studio, but a careful copy, _never!_
+until we can have a tenfold lease of life, and paint with sunbeams. But
+there is more still in this tantalizing ideal, for a luxuriant wild
+grape-vine, that shuts in the fence near by, sends toward us an
+adventurous branch that climbs the upright rail, and festoons itself
+from fence to tree, and hangs its luminous canopy over the crest of the
+yielding juniper. Even from where we stand we can see the pendant
+clusters of tiny grapes clearly shadowed against the translucent golden
+screen. Add to all this the charm of life and motion, with trembling
+leaves and branches bending in the breeze, with here and there a
+flitting shadow playing across the half hidden rails, and where can you
+find another such picture, its counterpart in beauty--where? perhaps its
+very neighbor, for all roadside pictures are "hung upon the line," they
+are all by the same great Master, and it is often difficult to choose.
+
+Here we have a contrast. A dappled rock has taken possession of this
+little corner, or the corner has been built around it, if you choose--a
+"gray" rock we would call it in common parlance, but it is a gray
+composed of a checkered multitude of tints, colors which upon a rock, it
+would seem, were hardly worth an appreciative glance; but only let them
+be exhibited upon a fold of Lyons silk or Jouvin kid glove, and dignify
+them by the compliments of "ashes of roses," or "London smoke," and how
+eagerly they are sought, how exquisite they become. I speak in
+moderation when I say that I have often sat and counted as many as
+thirty just such tints upon the surface of a small "gray" rock, each
+_distinct_, and all so _refined_ and exquisite in shade. This rounded
+bowlder is no exception; and with its tufted spots of jetty moss, and
+outcroppings of glistening quartz, its rounded, spreading blots of
+greenish lichens, and mottled groundwork, it may well defy the craft of
+the most skilled palette. And when these grays are contrasted with
+tender yellow greens and browns of fading ferns, such as fringe the
+borders of the one before me, with a background of scarlet whortleberry
+bushes and deep-green sprays of blackberry clustering about the
+loosening bark of a crumbling stump, with its shelving growth of fungus
+hiding among its brown debris, one may well pause and wonder which to
+choose, or where a single touch is wanting in the perfect unity and
+harmony of either.
+
+[Illustration: WAIFS.]
+
+Another jutting corner, and we confront a swaying mass of gold and
+purple--that magnificent regal combination of graceful golden-rod and
+asters that glorifies our autumn from September to the falling leaf.
+There are a number of species of golden-rod, varying as much in their
+intensity of color as in their time of bloom. The earliest appear in the
+heart of summer, in wood and meadow; while others, larger and more
+stately, lift up in their midst their plumy, undeveloped tips, and wait
+until their predecessors are old and gray ere they roll out their
+wreaths of gold. For weeks the roads and by-ways have been lit up with
+their brilliant glow, that parting sunset gleam that lingers with the
+closing year. This splendid cluster is full six feet in height, and
+towers above the highest rail, or rather where the rail ought to be, for
+it is lost from sight beneath a dense fret-work of prickly smilax--and
+such brilliant, polished leaves! how they glitter in the sun! almost as
+though wet with dew.
+
+And to think how those prickly canes, denuded of their leaves, are sold
+upon our city thoroughfares as "Spanish rose-trees" to the unsuspecting
+passer-by! Those guileless venders, too! I remember one that sought to
+enrich my store of botanical knowledge by telling me they "bloomed in
+winter!" and had a flower as "big as a saucer," and "kinder like a holy
+hawk!!!?" I looked him straight in the eye, but he was the picture of
+innocence. "Can you tell me the botanical name," I asked. "Oh yes," he
+glibly replied, "I think they call it the _Rubus epistaxis_." Eheu! but
+this was _too much_, and he saw it, and with a wink of his foxy eye and
+a shrewd grin, he whispered along the palm of his hand, "Got to git a
+livin' _somehow_, boss; now _don't_ give me away." "Here you are, lady,
+Spanish roses, lady, fresh from the steamer." I never see a thicket of
+green-brier without thinking of its "winter blossom;" and, by-the-way,
+did you ever notice a thicket of this shrub, what a defiant, arbitrary
+tyrant it is--shutting out the very life-breath and light of day from
+its encumbered victims, monopolizing everything within its power, and
+even reaching out for more with searching tips in mid-air, and a couple
+of greedy tendrils at every leaf? And did you ever notice along the road
+that delicious whiff that comes to you every now and then, that pungent
+breath of the sweet-fern? We get it now; the air is laden with it from
+the dark-green beds across the road. The sweet-fern, as I remember it,
+was the simpler's panacea and the small boy's joy--an aromatic shrub,
+whose inhaled fumes, together with its corn-silk rival, seem destined by
+an all-wise Providence as a preparatory tonic to the more ambitious
+fumigation of after-years. Many a time have I sat upon this bank and
+tried to imagine in my domestic product the racy flavor of the famed
+Havana!
+
+Between old Aunt Huldy, with her mania for the simples, and the demand
+of the village boys, I wonder there is any of it left. But Aunt Huldy
+has long since died; all her "yarbs," and "yarrer tea," and "paowerful
+gud stimmilants" could not give her the lease of eternal earthly life
+which she said lurked in the "everlastin' flaowers;" and after she had
+reached the age of one hundred and three, her tansy decoctions and
+boneset potions ceased in their efficacy--the feeble pulse grew feebler,
+and one winter's eve, sitting in her rocker by her kettle and andirons,
+she fell into a deep sleep, from which she never awoke. Aunt Huldy was
+as strange and eccentric a character as one rarely meets in the walks of
+life. Some said she was crazy; others said she was a witch; but
+whatever she may have been, this aged dame was picturesque with her bent
+figure, her long white hair and scarlet hood. And who shall describe the
+ancient withered face that looked out from the shadow of that hood, the
+small gray eyes and heavy white eyebrows, the toothless jaws and
+receding lips, and massive chin that made its appalling ascent across
+the face? But I cannot describe that face: think of how a witch should
+look, and old Huldy's features will rise up before you. She knew every
+herb that grew, but her great stand-by was "sweet-fern:" she smoked it,
+she chewed it, she drank it, and even wore a little bag of it around her
+neck, "to charm away the rheumatiz."
+
+[Illustration: IN THE CORNFIELD.]
+
+Since her time, however, the sweet-fern has had a chance to recuperate,
+and, as far as we can see along the road, the banks are covered with it;
+and there's a clump of teazles in its midst! I wonder if that old
+carding-mill still stands. You also, perhaps, will wonder what relation
+can exist between the two, that should make my thoughts jump half a
+mile at the sight of a roadside weed. But that old woollen-mill offered
+a premium on the extermination of one weed at least, for all the teasels
+of the neighborhood were required to keep its cloth brushes in thorough
+repair; but I fear its buzzing wheels are silent, for in olden times no
+such splendid clump as this could have remained to go to seed upon the
+highway. This old mill lies right upon our path, only a short walk down
+the road beyond. It nestles among a bower of willows in a picturesque
+ravine known as the "Devil's Hollow"--an umbrageous, rocky glen, by far
+too cool and comfortable a place to justify the name it bears.
+
+Following the road, we now descend into a long, low stretch, hedged in
+between two tall banks of alder, overtopped with interwoven tangles of
+clematis, with its cloudy autumn clusters--that graceful vine which,
+like the dandelion, is even more beautiful in death than in the fulness
+of its bloom. And so, indeed, are nearly all those plants whose final
+state is thus endowed by nature with feathery wings to lift them from
+the earth.
+
+When has this swamp milk-weed by the roadside looked so fair as now,
+with its bursting pods and silky seeds--those little waifs thrown out
+upon the world with every passing breeze. How tenderly they seem to
+cling to the little cosy home where they have been so snugly cradled and
+protected; and see how they sail away, two or three together, loth to
+part, until some rude gust shall separate them forever.
+
+And here's the great spiny thistle, too, that armed highwayman with
+florid face and pompon in his cap. But he has had his day, and now we
+see him old and seedy; his spears are broken, and his silvery gray hairs
+are floating everywhere and glistening in the sun.
+
+Now we leave the alders, and another roadside mosaic of rich color opens
+up before us, where the old half-wall fence, with its overtopping rails,
+is luminous with a crimson glow of ampelopsis. It covers all the stones
+for yards and yards; it swings from every jutting rail; it clambers up
+the tree trunks and envelops them in fire, and hangs its waving fringe
+from all the branches.
+
+Above the wall, like an encampment of thatched wigwams, the corn-shocks
+lift their heads; a prospecting colony encamped among a field rich with
+outcroppings of gold--a wealth of great round nuggets all in sight. And
+were we to tear away that thatch, we might see where they have stowed
+away their accumulated grains of wealth. We hear their rustling
+whispers: "Hush! hush!" they seem to say to each other as we approach;
+but their wariness is gratuitous, for a tell-tale vine is creeping away
+upon the fence near-by, and has stopped to rest its golden burden on the
+summit of the wall, half hiding among the scarlet creepers.
+
+Here yellow brakes abound, spreading their broad, triangular fronds on
+every side amid the brilliant berries of wild-rose, and pink leaves of
+blueberry. And here are thickets of black-alder, where every twig is
+studded with scarlet beads, that cling so close that even winter's
+bluster cannot shake them off. No matter where we look in these October
+days, nature is burning itself away in a blaze of color that dazzles the
+eyes; and now we approach its very crowning touch.
+
+I wish every one might see this gorgeous combination of oak and maples;
+see it and go no farther, for a further search were fruitless in finding
+its equal. It is the pride of the entire community; towns-people and
+visitors ride from miles around to see its final flush--a magnificent
+climax in the way of concentration of vivid color, in which nature seems
+to have grouped with distinct purpose and design, producing a piece of
+natural landscape-gardening such as no art could have approached. The
+background is a massive precipice of rock towering to the height of
+eighty feet, itself a perfect medley of tone.
+
+The group is composed of eight maples, each a distinct contrast of pure
+color. In their midst a superb large oak presents one massive breadth of
+deep purple green; and spreading up one side like a flood of yellow
+light, a rock-maple lifts its splendid array of foliage. These two trees
+concentrate the effect, and the others are arranged around them like
+colors on a palette: one is a flaming scarlet, another beside it is
+always a rich green, even to the falling leaf--with only a single
+branch, that every year, even as early as August, persists in turning to
+a peculiar salmon pink; another, a red-maple, is so deep a red as to
+appear almost maroon, and its branches intermingle with the pale-pink
+verdure of another growing by its side. There is one that combines every
+intermediate color, from deep crimson to the palest saffron; while its
+neighbor flutters in the wind with every leaf a brilliant butterfly of
+pure green, with spots and splashes of deep carmine.
+
+This whole assemblage of color fairly blazes in the landscape, and even
+from the top of Mount Pisgah, a half a mile away, it looks like a
+glowing coal dropped down upon a bed of smouldering ashes in the valley;
+for the surrounding meadow is thick-set with great gray rocks and
+crimson viburnum, as though it had caught fire from the flaming trees.
+What other country can boast the glory of a tree which, taken all in
+all, can hold its own beside our lovely maple? From the time when first
+it hangs its silken tassels to the awakening spring breeze until its
+autumn fire has burned away its leaves, it presents an everchanging
+phase that lends a distinct expression to American landscape. It affords
+us grateful shade in summer; and with its trickling bounty in the spring
+we can all unite in a hearty toast, "A health to the glorious maple."
+
+[Illustration: THE ROAD TO THE MILL.]
+
+But there is another tree which should not be forgotten, and if once
+seen in a New England autumn landscape there is little danger of its
+escaping from the memory. Of course, I refer to the pepperidge, or
+tupelo, that nondescript among trees; for who ever saw two
+pepperidge-trees alike? They seem to scorn a reputation for symmetry, or
+even the idea of establishing among themselves the recognition of a type
+of character. Novelty or grotesqueness is their only aim, and they hit
+the bull's-eye every time. There is one I have in mind that has always
+been a perfect curiosity. Its height is fully seventy feet, and its
+crown is as flat as though cut off with a mammoth pair of
+pruning-shears. The central trunk runs straight up to the summit, from
+which it squirms off into six or seven snake-like branches, that dip
+downward and writhe among the other limbs, all falling in the same
+direction. One gets the impression, on looking at it, that originally
+it might have been a respectable-looking tree, but that in some rude
+storm in its early days it had been struck by lightning, torn up by the
+roots, and afterward had taken root at the top. The tupelo, whenever
+seen, is always one of our most picturesque trees, and a never-failing
+source of surprise, twisting and turning into some unheard-of shape, and
+seeming always to say, "There! beat that if you can!" Near the coast it
+assumes the form of a crazy Italian pine, with spindling trunk and
+massive head of foliage. Sometimes it divides in the middle, like an
+hour-glass, and again mimics a fir-tree in caricature; but he who would
+keep track of the acrobatic capers of the tupelo would have his hands
+full. Whatever its shape, however, its brilliant, glossy crimson foliage
+forms one of the most striking features of our October landscape.
+
+But I believe we were on the road to that carding-mill. We had almost
+forgotten it; and now, as we look ahead, we see the old lumber-shed that
+marks the upper ledge of Devil's Hollow. From this old shed a
+trout-brook plunges through a series of rocky terraces, now winding
+among prostrate moss-grown trunks, now gurgling through the bare roots
+of great white birches, or spreading in a swift, glassy sheet as it
+pours across some broad shelving rock, and plunges from its edge in a
+filmy water-fall. It roars pent up in narrow ca�ons, and out again it
+swirls in a smooth basin worn in the solid rock. At almost every rod or
+two along its precipitous course there is a mill somewhere hid among the
+trees--queer, quaint little mills, some built up on high stone walls,
+others fed with trickling flumes which span from rock to rock,
+supporting on every beam a rounded cushion of velvety green moss, and
+hanging a fringe of ferns from almost every crevice. And one there is in
+ruins, fallen from its lofty perch, and piled in chaos in the stream.
+There are saw-mills, and shook-mills, and carding-mills, seven
+altogether in this one descent of about three hundred feet. The water
+enters the ravine as pure as crystal; but in its wild booming through
+race-ways, dams, and water-wheels, it gradually assumes a rich sienna
+hue from the _d�bris_ of sawdust everywhere along its course. The
+interior of the ravine is musical with the trebles of the falling water
+and the accompaniment of the rumbling mills. Tiny rainbows gleam beneath
+the water-falls, and swarms of glistening bubbles and little islands of
+saffron-colored foam float away upon the dark-brown eddies.
+
+At last we reach the carding-mill, which is the lowest of them all--in
+every sense, it seems, for it is as I had feared: the flume is but a
+pile of brown and mouldy timbers in the bed of the stream, and the old
+box-wheel has rotted and fallen from its spokes, almost obscured beneath
+a rank growth of weeds. No sound of buzzing teasels, no rumbling of the
+water-wheel, no happy carder singing at his work: _nothing_--but a
+couple of boys, kneeling in a corner, sucking cider through a straw.
+Yes, the old mill has fallen from grace; but what else might one expect
+from a mill in "Devil's Hollow," where all its neighbors are engaged in
+making hogshead staves, and the very water has turned to ruddy wine?
+
+[Illustration: THE CIDER MILL.]
+
+The carding-machine is gone, and has given place to a rustic
+cider-press. A temporary undershot-wheel has been rigged beneath the
+floor, and a rude trough, patched up with sods, conducts the water from
+the stream.
+
+It is the same old cider-press we all remember, and with the same
+accessories. Here are casks of all sizes waiting to be filled, and the
+piles of party-colored apples spilled upon the floor from the farmers'
+wagons that every now and then back up to the open door. There is the
+same rustic harangue on leading agricultural topics, among which we hear
+a variety of opinions about that imaginary "line storm."
+
+"Seems to gi'n the slip this year," remarks one old long-limbed settler
+with a slope-roofed straw hat, "'n' I don't know zactly what to _make_
+on't; but I ain't so sartin nuther"--he now takes a wise observation of
+a small patch of blue sky through the trees overhead. "I cal'late we'll
+git a leetle tetch on't yit."
+
+"Likenuff, likenuff," responds another, with a squeaky voice; "the ar's
+gittin' ruther dampish, 'n' my woman hez got the rheumatiz ag'in. She
+kin alluz tell when we're goin' to git a spell o' weather; it's sure to
+fetch her all along her spine. But I lay _most_ store on them ar pesky
+tree-tuds. I heern um singin' like all possessed ez I wuz comin' through
+the woods yender; 'n' it's a sartin sign o' rain when them ar critters
+gits agoin', you kin depend on't."
+
+And now we hear all about the pumpkin and the corn crop, the potato
+yield, and the regular list of other subjects so dear to the rural
+heart.
+
+In a corner by themselves we see the pile of "vinegar nubbins"--a tanned
+and soft variety of apple--in all stages of variegation. The "hopper"
+receives the shovelfuls of fruit for the crushing "smasher," which again
+supplies the straw-laid press. We hear the creaking turn of the lever
+screw, the yielding of the timbers, and a fresh burst of the trickling
+beverage flowing from the surrounding trough into the great wooden tub
+below. Here, too, is the swarm of eager urchins, with heads together,
+like a troop of flies around a grain of sugar. Ah! what unalloyed bliss
+is reflected from their countenances as they absorb the amber nectar
+through the intermediate straw--that golden link that I have missed for
+many a year!
+
+Outside upon the logs the refuse "pumice-cheese" has brought together
+all the yellow-jackets and late butterflies of the neighborhood--butterflies
+so tipsy that you can pick them up between your fingers. I never went so
+far with the yellow-jackets, for they have a hotter temper, and don't
+like to be fooled with. Black hornets, too, are here, and they find a
+feast spread at their very door; for overhead, upon the beech, they
+have hung their paper house, like a gray balloon caught among the
+branches.
+
+[Illustration: "THE LINE STORM."]
+
+Now we hear a chatter and a scratching on the roof, where a pair of
+lively squirrels hold a game of tag; and ascending the rickety stairs
+into the loft above, we find the floor strewn with hickory-nuts, with
+neat round holes cut through on either side, and numberless shaggy
+butternuts, too, with daylight let into their recesses also. The boards
+and beams are covered with cobweb trimmings, laden with wool-dust; and
+as we approach a pile of rusty iron near the murky window, we hear a
+scraping of sharp claws, the dropping of a nut between the rafters, and
+now a wild scampering on the roof overhead. Before we have fairly
+recovered from our surprise, we notice a sudden darkening of a hole in
+the shingles close by, where, still and motionless, two inquisitive
+black eyes look down at us. We have intruded upon private property, for
+this is the home of the squirrels. No one can dispute their title, for
+these little squatters have occupied the premises and held the fort for
+nearly twenty years.
+
+They, too, have found forage close at hand, from the nut-grove upon the
+hill-side yonder--a yellow bank of foliage of clustered hickories and
+beeches, and rounded domes of chestnuts--a grove whose every rock and
+bush is my old-time friend; where there are "sermons in stones," and
+every tree speaks volumes.
+
+Here is the low thicket of weeds and hazel-bushes where we always
+flushed that flock of quail, or started up some lively white-tailed hare
+that jumped away among the quivering brakes and golden-rod. Here are
+soft beds of rich green moss, studded with scarlet berries of
+winter-green and partridge-vine. Now we come upon a creeping mat of
+princess-pine, and here among the leaves we had almost stepped upon a
+spreading chestnut-burr--that same burr I have so often seen before,
+that same fuzzy, open palm holding out its tempting bait to lure the
+eagerness of youth; an eagerness which always invested a neighbor's
+chestnuts with a peculiar charm too tempting to resist; "take one," it
+seems to say, as it did in years ago; and its hedge of thorny prickles
+truly typifies the dangers which surrounded such an undertaking, for
+these trees belong to Deacon Turney, and he prizes them as though their
+yellow autumn leaves were so much gold. He guards them with an eagle's
+eye, and he gathers all their harvest; no single nut is ever known to
+sprout in Turney's woods if _he_ knows it.
+
+This pointed reminder among the leaves fairly pricks my conscience as I
+recall the many October escapades in which it formed the chief
+attraction. I remember one occasion in particular, for it is indelibly
+impressed on my memory, and it was on this very spot. A party of
+adventurous lads, myself among the number, were out for a glorious
+holiday. Each had his canvas bag across his shoulder, and we stole along
+the stone wall yonder, and entered the woods beneath that group of
+chestnuts. Two of us acted as outposts on picket guard; and another,
+young Teddy Shoopegg by name, the best climber in the village, did the
+shaking. He prided himself on being able to "shin up any tree in the
+caounty," and after he had once got up among those chestnut-trees we
+stood from under, and in a very short space of time no single burr was
+left among their branches. There were five busy pairs of hands beneath
+those trees, I can tell you, for each one of us fully realized the
+necessity of making the most of his time, not knowing how soon the
+warning cry from our outposts might put us all to headlong flight; for
+the alarm, "Turney's coming!" was enough to lift the hair of any boy in
+town.
+
+[Illustration: A POINTED REMINDER.]
+
+But luck seemed to favor us on that day; we "cleaned out" six big
+chestnut-trees, and then turned our attention to the hickories. There
+was a splendid tall shagbark close by, with branches fairly loaded with
+the white nuts in their open shucks. They were all ready to drop, and
+when the shaking once commenced, the nuts came down like a shower of
+hail, bounding from the rocks, rattling among the dry leaves, and
+keeping up a clatter all around. We scrambled on all fours, and gathered
+them by quarts and quarts. There was no need of poking over the leaves
+for them, the ground was covered with them in plain sight. While busily
+engaged, we noticed an ominous lull among the branches overhead.
+
+"'Sst! 'sst!" whispered Shoopegg up above; "I see old Turney on his
+white horse daown the road yender."
+
+"Coming this way?" also in a whisper, from below.
+
+"I dunno yit, but I jest guess you'd better be gittin' reddy to leg it,
+fer he's hitchin' his old nag 't the side o' the road. _Yis_, sir, I
+bleeve he's a-cummin'. Shoopegg, you'd better be gittin' aout o' this,"
+and he commenced to drop hap-hazard from his lofty perch. In a moment,
+however, he seemed to change his mind, and paused, once more upon the
+watch. "Say, fellers," he again broke in, as we were preparing for a
+retreat, "he's gone off to'rd the cedars; he ain't cummin' this way at
+_all_." So he again ascended into the tree-top, and finished his shaking
+in peace, and we our picking also. There was still another tree, with
+elegant large nuts, that we had all concluded to "finish up on." It
+would not do to leave it. They were the largest and thinnest-shelled
+nuts in town, and there were over a bushel in sight on the branch tips.
+Shoopegg was up among them in two minutes, and they were showered down
+in torrents as before. And what splendid, perfect nuts they were! We
+bagged them with eager hands, picked the ground all clean, and, with
+jolly chuckles at our luck, were just about thinking of starting for
+home with our well-rounded sacks, when a change came over the spirit of
+our dreams. There was a suspicious noise in the shrubbery near by, and
+in a moment more we heard our doom.
+
+"Jest yeu look _ee_ah, yeu boys!" exclaimed a high-pitched voice from
+the neighboring shrubbery, accompanied by the form of Deacon Turney,
+approaching at a brisk pace, hardly thirty feet away. "Don't yeu think
+yeu've got jest abaout _enuff_ o' them nuts?"
+
+Of course a wild panic ensued, in which we made for the bags and dear
+life; but Turney was prepared and ready for the emergency, and, raising
+a huge old shot-gun, he levelled it, and yelled, "Don't any on ye stir
+ner move, or by Christopher I'll blow the heels clean off'n the hull
+_pile_ on ye. I'd _shoot_ ye quicker'n _lightni'_."
+
+And we believed him, for his aim was true, and his whole expression was
+not that of a man who was trifling. I never shall forget the
+uncomfortable sensation that I experienced as I looked into the muzzle
+of that double-barrelled shot-gun, and saw both hammers fully raised
+too. And I can clearly see now the squint and the glaring eye that
+glanced along those barrels. There was a wonderfully persuasive power
+lurking in those horizontal tubes; so I at once hastened to inform the
+deacon that we were "not going to run."
+
+"Wa'al," he drawled, "it looked a leetle thet _way_, I thort, a spell
+_ago_;" and he still kept us in the field of his weapon, till at length
+I exclaimed, in desperation.
+
+"For gracious sake! point that gun in some other _way_, will you?"
+
+"Wa'al, _no_! I'm not fer pintin' it ennywhar else jest _yit_--not until
+you've sot them ar _bags_ daown agin, jist whar ye _got_ 'em, every
+_one_ on ye." The bags were speedily replaced, and he slowly lowered his
+gun.
+
+[Illustration: AFTER THE SHELL-BARKS]
+
+"Wa'al, naow," he continued, as he came up in our midst, "this is putty
+bizniss, _ain't_ it? Bin havin' a putty likely sort o' time teu, I sh'd
+jedge from the looks o' these 'ere _bags_. One--two--_six_ on 'em; an' I
+vaow they must be nigh on teu a half bushel in every pleggy _one_ on
+'em. Wa'al, naow"--with his peculiar drawl--"look eeah: you're a putty
+ondustrious lot o' _thieves_, I'm _blest_ if ye ain't." But the deacon
+did all the talking, for his manoeuvres were such as to render us
+speechless. "Putty likely place teu cum a-nuttin', ain't it?" Pause.
+"Putty nice mess o' shell-barks ye got thar, I tell ye naow.--Quite a
+sight o' _chestnuts_ in _yourn_, ain't they?"
+
+There was only one spoken side to this dialogue, but the pauses were
+eloquent on both sides, and we boys kept up a deal of tall thinking as
+we watched the deacon alternate his glib remarks by the gradual removal
+of the bags to the foot of a neighboring tree. This done, he seated
+himself upon a rock beside them.
+
+"_Thar!_" he exclaimed, removing his tall hat and wiping his
+white-fringed forehead with a red bandanna handkerchief. "I'm much
+_obleeged_. I've been a-watchin' on ye gittin' these 'ere nuts the hull
+arternoon. I thort ez haow yeu might like to know on't." And then, as
+though a happy thought had struck him, what should he do but
+deliberately spit on his hands and grasp his gun. "Look _ee_ah"--a
+pause, in which he cocked both barrels--"yeu boys wuz paowerful anxyis
+teu git _away_ from _ee_ah a spell ago. Naow yeu kin _git_ ez lively ez
+yeu pleze; your chores is done fer to-day." And bang! went one of the
+gun-barrels directly over our heads.
+
+We _got_, and when once out of gun-range we paid the deacon a wealth of
+those rare compliments for both eye and ear that always swell the boys'
+vocabulary.
+
+"All right," he yelled back in answer, as he transported the bags across
+the field. "Cum agin next year--cum agin. Alluz welcome! alluz welcome!"
+
+As I have already said, the deacon gathered all his nut
+harvest--sometimes by a very novel method.
+
+Who does not remember some such episode of the old jolly days? If it was
+not a Deacon Turney, it was some one else. I am sure his counterpart
+exists in every country town, and in the memory of every boyhood
+experience.
+
+We remember, perhaps, the sweet hazel-nuts which we gathered in their
+brown husks and spread to dry upon the garret floor, and how those
+mischievous mice avenged the deacon's wrongs as they invaded our
+treasured store, and transported it to the nooks and kinks among the
+rafters and beneath the floor. Then there were those rambles after
+"fox-grapes," and the "gunning" tramps, when we stole with cautious step
+upon the unseen "Bob White" whistling for us among the brush near by,
+when the startling _whirr_ of the ruffed grouse from almost under our
+feet sent an electric thrill up our backs and along our arms, even
+touching off the powder in our barrels unawares. There were box-traps in
+the woods, and snares among the copses, and lots of other mischief of
+which we would not care to tell.
+
+[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE FARM.]
+
+There was another little three-cornered nut that fell among the
+beech-trees where we held our October picnics, and the autumn beech
+forest I remember as a lovely woodland parlor. We sit upon a painted
+rock, in the shadow of a drooping hemlock, perhaps. Beyond, we look
+across among the smooth gray tree-trunks, where sidelong shadows softly
+stripe the matted leaves, with here and there a shining shaft of sunbeam
+lighting up the carpet, or a glinting spray of sun-tipped leaves that
+flicker above their shadows. The woods are filled with a luminous glow
+such as no summer forest ever knew--an all-pervading light which seems
+almost independent of the sunshine, as though living in the leaf itself.
+It floods the mottled bark, and transforms its ashy tints to softened
+autumn grays. It searches out the shadows of the evergreens, and throws
+its mellow glow upon the rocks among their recesses. It permeates the
+whole interior as though it were transfigured through a golden-colored
+glass.
+
+A quick, sharp whistle surprises you from the herbage near by, and a
+striped chickaree skips across the leaves and dives into his burrow at
+the foot of an old stump not far away. There are various other sounds
+that come to you if you sit quietly in a beech wood. Now it is a tiny
+footfall, a pat-pat upon the leaves, and a little brown bird is seen,
+hopping in and out among the undergrowth, scratching and pecking like a
+little hen among the leaf mould. Then comes a galloping sound, and you
+know there is a scampering hare somewhere about. And at last a peeping
+frog gains confidence, and starts up a trill somewhere behind you. He is
+soon joined by another, and still others, until a chorus of the shrill
+voices echoes among the trees, some from the around, some from the limbs
+overhead; and if you only sit perfectly still, you may hear a
+venturesome voice, perhaps, at your very elbow; for these little peepers
+are capricious songsters, and only sing before a quiet, attentive
+audience. Now a silly green katydid flits by, like an animated gauzy
+leaf; and quick as thought a kingbird darts out from the leaves
+overhead, hovers in mid-air for a second, and is away again; and
+luckless katydid wishes she _hadn't_.
+
+See the variety of beeches, too! Here are slender, dappled stems, clean
+and trim; and others, great giants with fluted trunks and gnarled roots,
+and with eccentric limbs reaching out in most fantastic angles; but all
+spreading above in a graceful, airy screen of intermingled tracery and
+sunlight, where slender branches bend and sway beneath the agile
+squirrel as he leaps from tree to tree, and the leaves clatter with the
+falling nuts. Behind us a soft fluttering of many wings betrays a
+slender mountain-ash, with its drooping clusters of berries, growing in
+an open, rocky space near by--where a flock of cedar birds assemble
+among the fruit, or scatter away amid the evergreens at your slightest
+movement. Turning your head in another direction, you can follow the
+course of an old farm-road that leads out upon a bright clearing,
+thick-set with light-green, feathery ferns. A few rods beyond, it makes
+a sudden downward turn through a dense grove of lofty pines and
+hemlocks. Here are "dim aisles" where dwell perpetual twilight--where no
+ray of sun has entered for well-nigh a century--only, perhaps, as it is
+brought down in a glistening sunbeam within the crystal bead of balsam
+upon some dropping cone. There is a solemn stillness in these stately
+halls, in which your very footfall is proscribed and hushed in the
+depths of the brown and silent carpet. There are old, venerable
+gray-beards here, and fallen monarchs lying prostrate among the rugged
+rocks; and here and there among the brown debris a fungus lifts its
+head, to tell of other generations that lie crumbling beneath the mould.
+Now among the lofty columns, like a magnificent illuminated window in
+some vast cathedral, comes a glimpse of the outer world with its autumn
+colors; and here the vaulted aisle soon leads us. We find a dazzling
+contrast; for in the sombre shadows of the pine-forest one readily
+forgets the month, or even the season. Here we approach a rippling
+trout-stream, and as we stop to rest upon its tottering bridge we look
+across a long brook meadow, where the asters screen the ground in
+mid-air in a purple sea--one of the rarest spectacles of autumn. But in
+this swamp lot there are presented a continual series of just such rich
+displays from spring-time till the winter.
+
+I know of no other place in which the progress of the year is so readily
+traced as in these swampy fallow lands. They are a living calendar, not
+merely of the seasons alone, but of every month successively; and its
+record is almost unmistakably disclosed. It is whispered in the fragrant
+breath of flowers, and of the aromatic herbage you crush beneath your
+feet. It floats about on filmy wings of dragon-fly and butterfly, or
+glistens in the air on silky seeds. It skips upon the surface of the
+water, or swims among the weeds beneath; and is noised about in myriads
+of tell-tale songs among the reeds and sedges. The swallows and the
+starlings proclaim it in their flight, and the very absence of these
+living features is as eloquent as life itself. Even in the simple story
+of the leaf, the bud, the blossom, and the downy seed, it is told as
+plainly as though written in prosaic words and strewn among the herbage.
+
+In the early, blustering days of March, there is a stir beneath the
+thawing ground, and the swamp cabbage-root sends up a well protected
+scout to explore among the bogs; but so dismal are the tidings which he
+brings, that for weeks no other venturing sprout dares lift its head. He
+braves alone the stormy month--the solitary sign of spring, save,
+perhaps, the lengthening of the alder catkins that loosen in the wind.
+April woos the yellow cowslips into bloom along the water's edge, and
+the golden willow twigs shake out their perfumed tassels. In May the
+prickly carex blossoms among the tussocks, and the calamus buds burst
+forth among their flat, green blades. June is heralded on right and left
+by the unfurling of blue-flags, and the eyebright blue winks and blinks
+as it awakens in the dazzling July sun.
+
+[Illustration: BEECH-NUTTING.]
+
+Then follows brimful August, with the summer's consummation of
+luxuriance and bloom; with flowers in dense profusion in bouquets of
+iron-weed and thoroughworts, of cardinal flowers and fragrant clethra,
+with their host of blossoming companions. The milk-weed pods fray out
+their early floss upon September breezes, and the blue petals of the
+gentian first unfold their fringes. October overwhelms us with the
+friendly tokens of burr marigolds and bidens; while its thickets of
+black-alder lose their autumn verdure, and leave November with a
+"burning bush" of scarlet berries hitherto half-hidden in the leafage.
+Now, too, the copses of witch-hazel bedeck themselves, and are yellow
+with their tiny ribbons. December's name is written in wreaths of snow
+upon the withered stalks of slender weeds and rushes, which soon lie
+bent and broken in the lap of January, crushed beneath their winter
+weight. And in fulfilment of the cycle, February sees the swelling buds
+of willow, with their restless pussies eager for the spring, half
+creeping from their winter cells.
+
+The October day is a dream, bright and beautiful as the rainbow, and as
+brief and fugitive. The same clouds and the same sun may be with us on
+the morrow, but the rainbow will have gone. There is a destroyer that
+goes abroad by night; he fastens upon every leaf, and freezes out its
+last drop of life, and leaves it on the parent stem, pale, withered, and
+dying.
+
+Then come those closing days of dissolution, the saddest of the year,
+when all nature is filled with phantoms, and the gaunt and naked trees
+moan in the wind--every leaf a mockery, every breeze a sigh. The air
+seems weighed with a premonition of the dreariness to come. The
+landscape is darkened in a melancholy monotone, and death is written
+everywhere. You may walk the woods and fields for hours without a gleam
+of comfort or a cheering sound. We hear, perhaps, the hollow roll of the
+woodpecker upon some neighboring tree; but even he is clad in mourning:
+it is a muffled drum, and the resounding limb is dead. You sit beneath
+the old oak-tree, but it is a lifeless rustle that grates upon your ear,
+while you listen half beseechingly for some cheering note from the
+robins in the thicket near; but they are coy and silent now, and their
+flight is toward the southern hills. A villanous shrike must needs come
+upon the scene: he alights upon a limb near by, with blood upon his
+beak. Murder is in his eye, and his mission here is death. And now we
+hear a noisy crow o'erhead: he perches upon a neighboring tree in hungry
+scrutiny. And what is he but carrion's bird, that revels in decay and
+death, with raiment black as a funeral pall? In the cold gray sky we see
+their scattered flocks blowing in the wind with sidelong flight, and in
+the field below that mocking cadaver, the man of straw, shaking his
+flimsy arms at them in wild contortions.
+
+[Illustration: THE NORTH WIND.]
+
+There is a hopeless despondency abroad in all the air, in which the
+summer medleys of the birds taunt us with their memories. We yearn for
+one such joyful sound to break the gloomy reverie. But what bird could
+swell his throat in song amidst such cheerlessness? No, Nature does not
+thus defeat her purpose. The hopefulness of Spring, the joyful
+consummation of Summer, have fled; their mission is fulfilled, and these
+are days for meditation on the past and future. All nature speaks of
+death; and there are voices of despair, and others eloquent with hope
+and trust. There are dead leaves that crumble into dust beneath our
+feet; but, if we look higher, there are others that conceal the promise
+of eternal life, where the undeveloped being, that perfect symbol,
+weaves his silken shroud, and awaits the coming of his day of full
+perfection. In the ground beneath he seeks his sepulchre, and he knows
+that at the appointed time he will burst his cerements and fly away.
+These are inobtrusive, silent testimonies; but they are here, and need
+only to be sought to unfold their prophecies.
+
+But there comes a respite even in these late gloomy days. There is a
+lull in the work of devastation, in which the sunny skies and magic haze
+of October come back to us in the charming dreaminess of the Indian
+summer. A brief farewell--perhaps a day, perhaps a week; but however
+long, it is a parting smile that we love to recall in the dreariness
+that follows. The sky is luminous with soft sun-lit clouds, and the hazy
+air is laden with spring-like breezes, with now and then a welcome
+cricket-song or light-hearted bird-note, for, although long upon their
+way, the birds have not yet all departed. They twitter cheerily among
+the trees and thickets, and should you listen quietly you perhaps might
+hear an echo of spring again in the warble of the robin upon the
+dog-wood-tree. Here they have loitered by the way among the scarlet
+berries. Not only robins, but cedar-birds and thrushes are here, in
+successive flocks, from morn till night.
+
+The fields are dull with faded golden-rods and asters, among whose downy
+seeds the frolicking chickadees and snow-birds hold a jubilee. The maze
+of twigs and branches in the distant hills has enveloped them in a smoky
+gray, and the sound of rustling leaves follows your footsteps in your
+woodland rambles. The fringe of yellow petals is unfolding on the
+witch-hazel boughs, and if you only knew the place, you might discover
+in some forsaken nook a solitary pale-blue lamp of fringed gentian still
+flickering among the withered leaves. Now a lively twittering and a hum
+of wings surprises you, and before you can turn your head a happy little
+troop of birds sweep across your path, and are away among the
+evergreens. They are white buntings, and their presence here is like a
+chill, for they come from the icy regions of the North, and they bring
+the snow upon their wings. The Indian summer is soon a thing of the
+past. Perhaps before another daybreak it will have flown. There is no
+dawn upon that morning. The night runs into a day of dismal, cheerless
+twilight, and the sky is overcast with ominous darkness. That angry
+cloud that left us, driven away before the conquering Spring, now lowers
+above the northward mountain; we see its livid face and feel its
+blighting breath--"a hard, dull bitterness of cold," that sweeps along
+the moor in noisy triumph, that howls and tears among the trembling
+trees, and smothers out the last smouldering flame of faded Autumn.
+
+The final leaf is torn from the tree. The lingering birds depart the
+desolation for scenes more tranquil, and I too with them, for nothing
+here invites my tarrying. The Autumn days are gone, grim Winter is at
+our door, and the covering snow will soon enshroud the earth, subdued
+and silent in its winter sleep.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+WINTER.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: THE SLEEP]
+
+[Illustration: A WINTER IDYL
+
+Prologue
+
+    A chill sad ending of a dreary day.
+      The waning light in stillness dies away.
+    Bequeaths no ray of hope the void to fill
+      But lends to gloomy thoughts more sadness still.
+    All nature hushed beneath a snowy shroud
+      Darkness and death their sovereign rule decree
+    O, reign of dread, of cruel blasts that kill
+      Thy cycle brings a heavy heart to me.
+    How many thus their Winter's advent view
+      Whose darkened faith no daylight ever knew.
+    Alas for him who thinks the grave his doom
+      Or sees the sun go down behind the tomb.
+    "Seek and ye shall find". On every hand
+      Mute prophecies their mission tell.
+    Yield but a listening ear and they shall say
+      'The dead but sleep, they do not pass away'
+    Else why mid earth and heaven on yonder tree
+      That type of life in death, the living tomb?
+    Why the imago from dark cerements free
+      Winging its upward flight from earthly gloom?
+    Why this device supreme unless a prophecy
+      Of resurrected life and immortality.
+    Oh thou whose downcast eyes refuse to seek
+      See! even at the grave the sign is given.
+    The snow-clad evergreen, eternal life
+      Clothed in celestial purity from heaven.
+    Even thus life's Winter should be blest
+      Not dark and dead but full of peace and rest.
+]
+
+
+Silently, like thoughts that come and go, the snow-flakes fall, each one
+a gem. The whitened air conceals all earthly trace, and leaves to
+memory the space to fill. I look upon a blank, whereon my fancy paints,
+as could no hand of mine, the pictures and the poems of a boyhood life;
+and even as the undertone of a painting, be it warm or cool, shall
+modify or change the color laid upon it, so this cold and frosty
+background through the window transfigures all my thoughts, and forms
+them into winter memories legion like the snow. Oh that I could
+translate for other eyes the winter idyl painted there! I see a living
+past whose counterpart I well could wish might be a common fortune. I
+see in all its joyous phases the gladsome winter in New England, the
+snow-clad hills with bare and shivering trees, the homestead dear, the
+old gray barn hemmed in with peaked drifts. I see the skating-pond, and
+hear the ringing, intermingled shouts of the noisy, shuffling game, the
+black ice written full with testimony of the winter's brisk hilarity.
+Down the hard-packed road with glancing sled I speed, past frightened
+team and startled way-side groups; o'er "thank you, marms," I fly in
+clear mid-air, and crouching low, with sidelong spurts of snowy spray, I
+sweep the sliding curve. Now past the village church and cosy parsonage.
+Now scudding close beneath the hemlocks, hanging low with their piled
+and tufted weight of snow. The way-side bits like dizzy streaks whiz by,
+the old rail fence becomes a quivering tint of gray. The road-side weeds
+bow after me, and in the swirling eddy chasing close upon my feet, sway
+to and fro. Soon, like an arrow from the bow, I shoot across the "Town
+Brook" bridge, and, jumping out beyond, skip the sinking ground, and
+with an anxious eye and careful poise I "trim the ship," and, hoping,
+leave the rest to fate.
+
+Perhaps I land on both runners, perhaps I don't; that depends. I've
+tried both ways I know, and if I remember rightly, I always found it
+royal jolly fun; for what cared I at a bruise, or a pint of snow down my
+back, when I got it there myself?
+
+The average New England boy is hard to kill, and I was one of that kind.
+Any boy who could brave the hidden mysteries and capricious favoritism
+of those fifteen dislocating "thank you, marms," and _hang together_
+through it all, and, having so done, finish that experience with a
+plunging double somersault into a crusted snow-bank, or, perchance, into
+a stone wall--if he can do this, I say, and survive the fun, then there
+is no reason why he should not live to tell of it in old age, for never
+in the flesh will he go through a rougher ordeal. I've known a boy who
+"_hated_ the old district school because the hard benches hurt him so,"
+and who would rest his aching limbs for hours together in this gentle
+sort of exercise. "The fine print made his eyes ache, and he couldn't
+study;" and yet when one day he comes home with one eye all colors of
+the rainbow, "it's _nothing_." "Consistency is a jewel." Boys don't
+generally wear jewels. But they are all alike. Boys will be boys, and if
+they only live through it, they will some day look back and wonder at
+their good fortune.
+
+At the foot of that long hill the "Town Brook" gurgles on its winding
+way, and passing beneath the weather-beaten bridge, it makes a sudden
+turn, and spreads into a glassy pond behind the bulwarks of the saw-mill
+dam. In summer, were we as near as this, we would hear the intermittent
+ring of the whizzing saw, the clanking cogs, and the tuneful sounds of
+the falling bark-bound slabs; but now, like its bare willows that were
+wont to wave their leafy boughs with caressing touch upon the mossy
+roof, the old mill shows no sign of life. Its pulse is frozen, and the
+silent wheel is resting from its labors beneath a coverlet of snow. Who
+is there who has not in some recess of the memory a dear old haunt like
+this, some such sleeping pond radiant with reflections of the scenes of
+early life? Thither in those winter days we came, our numbers swelled
+from right and left with eager volunteers for the game, till at last,
+almost a hundred strong, we rally on the smooth black ice.
+
+[Illustration: SNOW-FLAKES OF MEMORY.]
+
+The opposing leaders choose their sides, and with loud hurrahs we
+penetrate the thickets at the water's edge, each to cut his special
+choice of stick--that festive cudgel, with curved and club-shaped end,
+known to the boy as a "shinney-stick," but to the calm recollection of
+after-life principally as an instrument of torture, indiscriminately
+promiscuous in its playful moments. Were I to swing one of those dainty
+little clubs again, I would rather that the end were tied up in
+something soft, and that this should be the universal rule; otherwise I
+don't think I would play. I would prefer to sit on the bank and watch
+the sport, or make myself useful in looking after the dead and wounded.
+But to the "average New England boy" it makes a great deal of difference
+who swings the club, and what it is swung for. If it is whirled in
+_play_, and takes him with a blow that _ought_ to kill him, and _would_
+if he were not a boy, why then he laughs, and thinks it's good fun, and
+goes in and gets another. But if the parental guardian has any reason to
+swing a stick even one-tenth the size, the whole neighborhood thinks
+there is a boy being murdered. So much depends upon a name sometimes.
+
+[Illustration: THE OLD MILL-POND.]
+
+How clearly and distinctly I recall those toughening, rollicking sports
+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.
+
+Was ever perfume sweeter than that all-pervading fragrance of the
+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
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTORAL DAYS ***
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+.poem {margin-left:25%;text-indent:0%;}
+.poem .stanza     {margin-top: 1em;margin-bottom:1em;}
+.poem span.i0     {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;}
+.poem span.i1     {display: block; margin-left: .55em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;}
+.poem span.i2     {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;}
+.poem span.i3     {display: block; margin-left: 3em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;}
+.poem span.i4     {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;}
+</style>
+  </head>
+<body>
+
+
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pastoral Days, by William Hamilton Gibson
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license
+
+
+Title: Pastoral Days
+       or Memories of a New England Year
+
+Author: William Hamilton Gibson
+
+Release Date: November 3, 2012 [EBook #41278]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTORAL DAYS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+<hr class="full" />
+
+<table summary="note" border="4" cellpadding="10" style="background-color: #ffffff;
+margin-left:auto;margin-right:auto;max-width:30em;">
+  <tr>
+    <td valign="top">Please note: this etext was created to be viewed as xhtml.
+Conversions to other formats in order to view the etext on various ereading devices may
+render the intended formatting irrelevant: images may not appear as
+intended in the created etext, etc. Clicking on the images will
+bring up a larger view. (note of the etext transcriber.)</td>
+  </tr>
+</table>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/cover_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="423" height="550" alt="image of the book&#39;s cover" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>
+<a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>
+<a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a></p>
+
+<p class="cb">PASTORAL DAYS</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a></p>
+
+<p><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a></p>
+
+<h1>PASTORAL &nbsp; DAYS<br />
+<small><small>OR</small></small><br />
+<small><small>MEMORIES &nbsp; OF &nbsp; A &nbsp; NEW &nbsp; ENGLAND &nbsp; YEAR</small></small></h1>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="cb"><small>BY</small><br />
+W. &nbsp; HAMILTON &nbsp; GIBSON<br /><br />
+<br />
+<span class="eng">Illustrated</span><br /><br />
+<br />
+NEW YORK<br />
+HARPER &amp; BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE<br />
+1881</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;<a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="c">
+<small>Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by<br />
+HARPER &amp; BROTHERS,<br />
+In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.<br />
+&mdash;&mdash;<br />
+<i>All rights reserved.</i></small>
+</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="c">
+TO<br />
+<br />
+ONE WHOSE CLOSE COMPANIONSHIP<br />
+<br />
+<small>HAS WROUGHT THAT HARMONY AND PEACE OF MIND FROM WHICH THIS<br />
+BOOK HAS SPRUNG, AND TO WHOM ITS EVERY PAGE RECALLS<br />
+A REMINISCENCE OF THE PAST IDENTIFIED<br />
+WITH MEMORIES OF MY OWN</small><br />
+<br />
+<span class="eng">This &nbsp; Memoir &nbsp; is &nbsp; Lovingly &nbsp; Inscribed</span><br />
+<br />
+OUR SOUVENIR<br />
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg008_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg008_sml.jpg" width="134" height="86" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a></p>
+
+<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="">
+
+<tr><th colspan="2" align="center">T<small>HE</small> C<small>YCLE</small>.</th></tr>
+
+<tr><td><a href="#SPRING">S<small>PRING</small></a>:</td>               <td><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>&nbsp; &nbsp; <i>The Awakening</i> </td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_019">19</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td colspan="2"><a href="#SUMMER">S<small>UMMER</small></a>:</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>&nbsp; &nbsp; <i>The Consummation</i></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_051">51</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td colspan="2"><a href="#AUTUMN">A<small>UTUMN</small></a>:</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>&nbsp; &nbsp; <i>The Waning</i></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_091">91</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td colspan="2"><a href="#WINTER">W<small>INTER</small></a>:</td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>&nbsp; &nbsp; <i>The Sleep</i></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_125">125</a></td></tr>
+</table>
+
+<p><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a></p>
+
+<p><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a></p>
+
+<h2><a name="ILLUSTRATIONS" id="ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>I<small>LLUSTRATIONS</small>.<br /><br />
+<small>DESIGNED BY<br />
+W. H<small>AMILTON</small> G<small>IBSON</small>.</small></h2>
+
+<table border="0" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="0" summary="">
+<tr><td align="left">&nbsp; &nbsp; <small>TITLE</small>. </td><td align="center"><small>ENGRAVER</small>.</td><td align="right"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE KINDLED FLAME</td><td>W. H. C<small>LARK</small> </td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_018">18</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE AWAKENING</td><td>H. G<small>RAY</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_019">19</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>A SPRING MORNING</td><td>F. S. K<small>ING</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_021">21</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>CATKINS</td><td>J<small>OHN</small> F<small>ILMER</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_023">23</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>PUSSIES</td><td>&nbsp; &nbsp; ” &nbsp; &nbsp; ”</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_023">23</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>EARLY PLOUGHING</td><td>H. W<small>OLF</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_025">25</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE RETURN FROM THE FIELDS</td><td>G<small>EORGE</small> S<small>MITH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_026">26</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>VOICES OF THE NIGHT</td><td>J<small>OHN</small> F<small>ILMER</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_027">27</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>A RAINY DAY</td><td>J. H<small>ELLAWELL</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_029">29</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>A HANDFUL FROM THE WOODS</td><td>H. G<small>RAY</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_032">32</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>AFTER ARBUTUS</td><td>J. T<small>INKEY</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_034">34</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE FAIRY FROND</td><td>J. P. D<small>AVIS</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_035">35</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>AN APRIL DAY</td><td>G<small>EORGE</small> S<small>MITH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_036">36</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS</td><td>S<small>MITHWICK</small> and F<small>RENCH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_037">37</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE COLUMBINE</td><td>R. H<small>OSKIN</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_038">38</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE MEADOW BROOK</td><td>&nbsp; &nbsp; ” &nbsp; &nbsp; ”</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_040">40</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE PHŒBE’S NEST</td><td>W. H. M<small>ORSE</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_041">41</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>BUILDING THE NEST</td><td>H<small>ENRY</small> M<small>ARSH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_042">42</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>IN THE APPLE ORCHARD</td><td>R. H<small>OSKIN</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_043">43</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>LITTLE PLUNDERERS</td><td>A. H<small>AYMAN</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_045">45</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>ONE OF NATURE’S MARVELS</td><td>H. M<small>ARSH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_046">46</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>BLUE-FLAGS</td><td>R. H<small>OSKIN</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_047">47</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE CONSUMING FLAME</td><td>W. H. C<small>LARK</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_050">50</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE CONSUMMATION</td><td>N. O<small>RR</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_051">51</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>DOLCE FAR NIENTE</td><td>F. S. K<small>ING</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_055">55</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE OLD GARRET</td><td>F. J<small>UENGLING</small><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_056">56</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>AMID THE GRASSES</td><td>F. S. K<small>ING</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_058">58</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>EVEN-TIDE</td><td>G. K<small>RUELL</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_060">60</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THROUGH THE SEDGES</td><td>R. H<small>OSKIN</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_062">62</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>AMONG THE BOGS</td><td>J. T<small>INKEY</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_063">63</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>SOME ART CONNOISSEURS</td><td>R. H<small>OSKIN</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_064">64</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>PROFESSOR WIGGLER</td><td>J. F<small>ILMER</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_065">65</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE TYRANT OF THE FIELDS</td><td>H. E. S<small>CHULTZ</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_067">67</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>FAMILIAR FACES AT THE VILLAGE STORE</td><td>R. A. M<small>ULLER</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_070">70</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>A SOUVENIR</td><td>S<small>MITHWICK</small> and F<small>RENCH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_072">72</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>ALONG THE HOUSATONIC</td><td>G<small>EORGE</small> S<small>MITH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_074">74</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>JUDD’S BRIDGE</td><td>P. A<small>NNIN</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_078">78</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE HAUNTED MILL</td><td>J. H<small>ELLAWELL</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_079">79</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>PURSUERS AND PURSUED</td><td>G<small>EORGE</small> A<small>NDREW</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_081">81</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>TOLLING FOR THE DEAD</td><td>R. S<small>CHELLING</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_083">83</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>WRECKS OF THE TORNADO</td><td>J. F<small>ILMER</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_084">84</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>PASSING THOUGHTS</td><td>H. G<small>RAY</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_086">86</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE SMOULDERING FLAME</td><td>&nbsp; &nbsp; ” &nbsp; &nbsp; ”</td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_090">90</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE WANING</td><td>A. H<small>AYMAN</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_091">91</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>“EVERY BREEZE A SIGH”</td><td>F. S. K<small>ING</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_093">93</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>AN OCTOBER DAY</td><td>S<small>MITHWICK</small> and F<small>RENCH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_096">96</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL</td><td>J. H<small>ELLAWELL</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_097">97</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>WAIFS</td><td>H<small>ENRY</small> M<small>ARSH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_100">100</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>IN THE CORNFIELD</td><td>W. M<small>ILLER</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_102">102</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE ROAD TO THE MILL</td><td>E. H<small>ELD</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_105">105</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE CIDER-MILL</td><td>J. P. D<small>AVIS</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_107">107</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE “LINE STORM”</td><td>R. H<small>OSKIN</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_109">109</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>A POINTED REMINDER</td><td>J. F<small>ILMER</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_111">111</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>AFTER THE SHELL-BARKS</td><td>G<small>EORGE</small> S<small>MITH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_113">113</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>A CORNER OF THE FARM</td><td>J. T<small>INKEY</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_115">115</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>BEECH-NUTTING</td><td>W. H. M<small>ORSE</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_118">118</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE NORTH WIND</td><td>M<small>ORSE</small> and H<small>OSKIN</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_120">120</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>DESERTED</td><td>H<small>ENRY</small> D<small>EIS</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_121">121</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE FLAME EXTINGUISHED</td><td>H. G<small>RAY</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_124">124</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE SLEEP</td><td>J. T<small>INKEY</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_125">125</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE TOMB</td><td>J. P. D<small>AVIS</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_127">127</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>SNOW-FLAKES OF MEMORY</td><td>G<small>EORGE</small> S<small>MITH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_129">129</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE OLD MILL-POND</td><td>H. G<small>RAY</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_131">131</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE FIRST SNOW</td><td>G<small>EORGE</small> S<small>MITH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_133">133</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>MUTE PROPHECIES</td><td>H. E. S<small>CHULTZ</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_135">135</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE TWITCH-UP</td><td>F. S. K<small>ING</small><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_137">137</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE WINTER’S DARLING</td><td>H<small>ENRY</small> M<small>ARSH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_139">139</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>WHO’S THAT?</td><td>H. W<small>OLF</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_140">140</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>SUNSHINE AND SHADOW IN THE WOODS</td><td>R. H<small>OSKIN</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_141">141</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>A SUNNY CORNER</td><td>W. H. M<small>ORSE</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_143">143</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>WINTER BROWSING</td><td>S<small>MITHWICK</small> and F<small>RENCH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_144">144</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>A JANUARY THAW</td><td>J. F<small>ILMER</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_145">145</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE MOONLIGHT RIDE</td><td>J. H<small>ELLAWELL</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_147">147</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE SHADOWED PAGE</td><td>J. T<small>INKEY</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_149">149</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE GOOD PHYSICIAN</td><td>R. S<small>CHELLING</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_151">151</a></td></tr>
+
+<tr><td>THE FULFILMENT</td><td>S<small>MITHWICK</small> and F<small>RENCH</small></td><td align="right" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_153">153</a></td></tr>
+</table>
+
+<p><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg015_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg015_sml.jpg" width="107" height="51" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a></p>
+
+<p><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a></p>
+
+<h2><a name="SPRING" id="SPRING"></a>S<small>PRING</small>.</h2>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg018_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg018_sml.jpg" width="88" height="105" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg019_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg019_sml.jpg" width="317" height="528" alt="THE AWAKENING" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a></p>
+
+<p><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg021_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg021_sml.jpg" width="336" height="518" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span>S far as the eye can reach, the snow lies in a deep mantle over the
+cheerless landscape. I look out upon a dreary moor, where the horizon
+melts into the cold gray of a heavy sky. The restless wind<a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a> sweeps with
+pitiless blast through shivering trees and over bleak hills, from whose
+crests, like a great white veil, the clouds of hoary flakes are lifted
+and drawn along by the gale. Down the upland slope, across the
+undulating field, the blinding drift, like a thing of life, speeds in
+its wild caprice, now swirling in fantastic eddies around some isolated
+stack, half hidden in its chill embrace, now winding away over
+bare-blown wall and scraggy fence, and through the sighing willows near
+the frozen stream; now with a wild whirl it flies aloft, and the dark
+pines and hemlocks on the mountain-side fade away in its icy mist.
+Again, yonder it appears trailing along the meadow, until, flying like
+some fugitive spirit chased from earth by the howling wind, it vanishes
+in the sky. On every side these winged phantoms lead their flying chase
+across the dreary landscape, and fence and barn and house upon the hill
+in turn are dimmed or lost to sight.</p>
+
+<p>Who has not watched the strange antics of the drifting snow whirling
+past the window on a blustering winter’s day? But this is not a winter’s
+day. This is the advent of a New England spring.</p>
+
+<p>Fortunate are we that its promises are not fulfilled, for the ides of
+March might as oft betoken the approach of a tempestuous winter as of a
+balmy spring. Consecrated to Mars and Tantalus, it is a month of
+contradictions and disappointments, of broken promises and incessant
+warfare. It is the struggle of tender awakening life against the
+buffetings of rude and blighting elements. No man can tell what a day
+may bring forth. Now we look out verily upon bleak December;
+to-morrow&mdash;who knows?&mdash;we may be transported into May, and, with
+aspirations high, feel our ardor cooled by a blast of ice and a blinding
+fall of snow. But this cannot always last, for soon the southern breezes
+come and hold their sway for days, and the north wind, angry in its
+defeat, is driven back in lowering clouds to the region of eternal ice
+and snow. Then comes a lovely day, without even a cloud&mdash;all blue above,
+all dazzling white below. The sun shines with a glowing warmth, and we
+say unto ourselves, “This is, indeed, a harbinger of spring.” The
+sugar-maples throb and trickle with the flowing sap, and the lumbering
+ox-team and sled wind through the woods from tree to tree to relieve the
+overflowing buckets. The boiling caldron in the sugar-house near by
+receives the continual supply, and gives forth that sweet-scented steam
+that issues from the open door, and comes to us in occasional welcome
+whiffs across the snow. Long “wedges” of wild-geese are seen cleaving
+the sky in their northward flight.<a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a> The little pussies on the willows
+are coaxed from their winter nest, and creep out upon the stem. The
+solitary bluebird makes his appearance, flitting along the thickets and
+stone walls with little hesitating warble, as if it were not yet the
+appointed time to sing; and down among the bogs, that cautious little
+pioneer, the swamp-cabbage flower, peers above the ground beneath his
+purple-spotted hood. He knows the fickle month which gives him birth,
+and keeps well under cover.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 103px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg023-a_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg023-a_sml.jpg" width="103" height="497" alt="CATKINS." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">CATKINS.</span>
+</div>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 128px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg023-b_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg023-b_sml.jpg" width="128" height="528" alt="PUSSIES." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">PUSSIES.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Such days in March are too perfect to endure, and at night the sky is
+overcast and dark. Then follows a long warm rain that unlocks the ice in
+all the streams. The whiteness of the hills and meadows melts into broad
+contracting strips and patches. One by one, as mere specks upon the
+landscape, these vanish in turn, until the last vestige of winter is
+washed from the face of the earth to swell the tide of the rushing
+stream. Even now, from the distant valley, we hear a continuous muffled
+roar, as the mighty freshet, impelled by an irresistible force, ploughs
+its tortuous channel through the lowlands and ravines. The quiet town is
+filled with an unusual commotion. Excited groups of towns-people crowd
+the village store, and eager voices tell of the havoc wrought by the
+fearful flood. We hear how the old toll-bridge, with tollman’s house and
+all, was lifted from its piers like a pile of straw, and whirled away
+upon the current. How its floating timbers, in a great blockade, crushed
+into the old mill-pond; how the dam had burst, and the rickety<a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a> red
+saw-mill gone to pieces down the stream. Farmer Nathan’s barn had gone,
+and his flat meadows were like a whirling sea, strewn with floating
+rails and driftwood. Every hour records its new disaster as some eager
+messenger returns from the excited crowds which line the river-bank. How
+well I remember the fascinating excitement of the spring freshet as I
+watched the rising water in the big swamp lot, anxious lest it might
+creep up and undermine the wall foundations of the barn! And what a
+royal raft I made from the drifting logs and beams, and with the spirit
+of an adventurous explorer sailed out on the deep gliding current,
+floating high among the branches of the half submerged willow-trees, and
+scraping over the tips of the tallest alder-bushes, whose highest twigs
+now hardly reached the surface! How deep and dark the water looked as I
+lay upon the raft and peered into the depths below! But this jolly fun
+was of but short duration. The flood soon subsided, and on the following
+morning nothing was seen excepting the settlings of <i>débris</i> strewn
+helter-skelter over the meadow, and hanging on all the bushes.</p>
+
+<p>The tepid rain has penetrated deep into the yielding ground, and with
+the winter’s frost now coming to the surface, the roads are well-nigh
+impassable with their plethora of mud. For a full appreciation of <i>mud</i>
+in all its glory, and in its superlative degree, one should see a New
+England highway “when the frost comes out of the ground.” The roads are
+furrowed with deep grimy ruts, in which the bedabbled wheels sink to
+their hubs as in a quicksand, and the hoofs of the floundering horse are
+held in the swampy depths as if in a vise. For a week or more this state
+of things continues, until at length, after warm winds and sunny days,
+the ground once more packs firm beneath the tread. This marks the close
+of idle days. The junk pile in the barn is invaded, and the rusty plough
+abstracted from the midst of rakes and scythes and other farming tools.
+The old white horse thrusts his long head from the stall near by, and
+whinnies at the memories it revives, and with pricked-up ears and
+whisking tail tells plainly of the eagerness he feels.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg025_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg025_sml.jpg" width="331" height="202" alt="EARLY PLOUGHING." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">EARLY PLOUGHING.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Back and forth through the sloping lot the ploughman slowly turns the
+dingy sward, and in the rich brown furrow, following in his track, we
+see the cackling troop of hens, and the lordly rooster, with great ado,
+searches out the dainty tidbits for his motley crowd of favorites. The
+whole landscape has become infused with human life and motion. Wherever
+the eye may turn it sees the evidences of varied and hopeful<a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a> industry.
+Yonder we notice an oft-recurring little puff of mist, like a burlesque
+snow-drift, ever and anon bursting into view, and softly vanishing
+against the sward; another glance detects the slow progress of horse and
+cart, as the farmer sows his load of plaster across the whitening field.
+Farther up, where the brow of the hill stands clear against the sky, a
+pacing figure, with measured sweep of arm, scatters the handfuls of
+wheat, and team and harrow soon are in his path, combing and crumbling
+the dark-brown mould. High curling wreaths of smoke wind upward from the
+flat swamp lot beyond, where hilarious boys enjoy both work and play in
+burning off the brush. Here we shall see the first welcome nibble of
+fresh grass for the poor bereaved cow, whose lamenting bleat now echoes
+through the barn near by; and for those oxen, too, that with swaying,
+clumsy gait lug the huge roller across the neighboring field. And what
+strange yells and exclamations guide them in their labored progress! “Ho
+back! Gee up, ahoy! Ho haw!” From every direction, in voices near, and
+others faint with distance, we hear this same queer jargon. Who could
+believe that so much good work hung upon the incessant reiteration of
+that brief and monotonous vocabulary? Rather would we listen to the
+musical ring of the laughing children riding on the big “brush harrow”
+down through that barn-yard lane beyond. Now they are out upon the
+broken ground where John has strewn the “compost” to be “brushed in.” A
+broad flat wake follows<a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a> them around the field, and that same troop of
+hens and turkeys revel in the lively feast spread out before them in the
+loose upturning.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg026_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg026_sml.jpg" width="323" height="155" alt="RETURN FROM THE FIELDS." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">RETURN FROM THE FIELDS.</span>
+</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 188px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg027_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg027_sml.jpg" width="188" height="489" alt="VOICES OF THE NIGHT." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">VOICES OF THE NIGHT.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>So runs the record of a busy day in the early New England springtime,
+and with its all-absorbing industry it is a day that passes quickly. The
+afternoon runs into evening. Cool shadows creep across the landscape as
+the glowing sun sinks through the still bare and leafless trees and
+disappears behind the wooded hills. The fields are now deserted, and
+through the uncertain twilight we see the little knots of workmen with
+their swinging pails, and hear their tramp along the homeward road. In
+the dim shadows of the evergreens beyond, a faint gray object steals
+into view. Now it stops at the old watering-trough, and I hear the sip
+of the eager horse and the splash of overflowing water. Some belated
+ploughman, fresh, perhaps, from a half-hour’s gossip at the village
+store. I hear the sound of hoofs upon the stones as they renew their
+way, the dragging of the chain upon the gravelly bed, and the receding
+form is lost in the darkening road. One by one the scattered barns and
+houses have disappeared in the gathering dusk, marked only by the faint
+columns of blue smoke that rise above the trees, and melt away against
+the twilight sky. I look out upon a wilderness of gloom, where all above
+is still and clear, and all below is wrapped in impenetrable mystery. A
+plaintive piping trill now breaks the impressive stillness. Again and
+again I hear the little lonely voice vibrating through the low-lying
+mist. It is only a little frog in some far-off marsh; but what a sweet
+sense of sadness is awakened by that lowly melody! How its weird minor
+key, with its magic<a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a> touch, unlocks the treasures of the heart. Only the
+peeping of a frog; but where in all the varied voices of the night,
+where, even among the great chorus of nature’s sweetest music, is there
+another song so lulling in its dreamy melody, so full of that emotive
+charm which quickens the human heart? How often in the vague spring
+twilight have I yielded to the strange, fascinating melancholy awakened
+by the frog’s low murmur at the water’s edge! How many times have I
+lingered near some swampy roadside bog, and let these little wizards
+weave their mystic spell about my willing senses, while the very air
+seemed to quiver in the fulness of their song! I remember the tangle of
+tall and withered rushes, through whose mysterious depths the eye in
+vain would strive to penetrate at the sound of some faint splash or
+ripple, or perhaps at the quaint, high-keyed note of some little
+isolated hermit, piping in his sombre solitude. I recall the first
+glimpse of the rising moon, as its great golden face peered out at me
+from over the distant hill, enclosing half the summit against its broad
+and luminous surface. Slowly and steadily it seemed to steal into view,
+until, risen in all its fulness, I caught its image in the trembling
+ripples at the edge of the soggy pool, where the palpitating water
+responded to the frog’s low, tremulous monotone. Higher and higher it
+sails across the inky sky, its glow now changed to a silvery pallor,
+across whose white halo, in a floating film, the ghostly clouds glide in
+their silent flight. A dull tinkling of some distant<a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a> cow-bell breaks
+the spell, and recalls my wandering thoughts, and as I again take up my
+way along the moonlit road, the glimmering windows on right and left
+betray the hiding-places of a score of humble homes. Not far beyond I
+see the swinging motion of a flickering lantern, as some tardy farmer’s
+boy, whistling about his work, clears up his nightly chores. Now he
+enters the old barn-door. I see the light glinting through the open
+cracks, and hear the lowing of the cows, the bleating of the baby-calf,
+and rattling chains of oxen in the stanchion rows. Now again I catch the
+gleam at the open door; the swinging light flits across the yard, and
+the old corn-crib starts from its obscurity. I see the boyish figure
+relieved against the glow within as a basketful of yellow ears are
+gathered for the impatient mouths in the noisy manger stalls. Sing on,
+my boy, enjoy it while you may! That venerable barn will yield a
+fragrance to you in after-life that will conjure up in your heart a
+throng of memories as countless as the shining grains that glimmer in
+the light you hold, and as golden, too, as they. I wonder if those
+soft-winged bats squeak among the clapboards, or make their fluttering
+zigzag swoops about your lantern as they were wont to do in olden times.</p>
+
+<p>Then there was that big-eyed owl, too, that perched upon the maple-tree
+outside my window, and cried as if its heart would break at the doleful
+tidings it foretold. What a world of kind solicitude that dolorous bird
+awakened in our superstitious neighbor across the road! How she
+overwhelmed us with her sympathy, aroused by that sepulchral omen! But I
+still live, and so does the owl, for aught I know; and I sometimes think
+that this aged, stooping dame over the way has never fully recovered
+from her disappointment, for she always greets me with a sigh and an
+injured expression, as she says, in her high and tremulous voice, “Well!
+well! back agin ez hale ’n hearty ’s ever; an’ arter the way thet ar
+witch bird yewst teu call ye, too, night arter night. Jest teu <i>think</i>
+on’t! an’ we’d all a’ gi’n ye up fer sartin. Well! well! I never see the
+beat on’t. Yen deu seem teu hang on <i>paowerful</i>;” and, after a moment’s
+hesitation, seemingly in which to swallow the bitter pill, she usually
+adds, with sad solicitude, “Feelin’ perty <i>tol’ble teu</i>, I spose?” But
+the “witch bird” never roused my serious apprehensions. I remember its
+plaintive cry only as a tender bit of pathos in the pages of my early
+history.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg029_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg029_sml.jpg" width="345" height="478" alt="A RAINY DAY." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">A RAINY DAY.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>I recall, too, the pleasant sound upon the shingles overhead as the
+dark-clouded sky let fall its tell-tale drops to warn us of the coming
+rain. How many times have I glided into dream-land under the drowsy
+influence<a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a> of the patter on the roof, and the ever varying tattoo upon
+the tin beneath the dripping eaves! Who can forget those rainy days,
+with their games of hide-and-seek in the old dark garret! How we looked
+out upon the muddy puddled road, and laughed at the great drifting
+sheets of water that ever and anon poured down from some bursting cloud,
+and roared upon the roof! And as the driving rain beat against the
+blurred window-panes, what strange capers the squirming tree-trunks
+outside seemed to play for our amusement: the dark door-way of the barn,
+too&mdash;now swelling out to twice its size, now stretching long and thin,
+or dividing in the middle in its queer contortions. Out in the dismal
+barn-yard we saw the forlorn row of hens huddled together on the
+hay-rick, under the drizzling straw-thatched shed; and the gabled coop
+near by, in whose dry retreat the motherly old hen spread her tawny
+wings, and yielded the warmth of<a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a> her ruffled breast to the tender needs
+of her little family, peeping so contentedly beneath her. The rain-proof
+ducks dabble in the neighboring puddles, and chew the muddy water in
+search of floating dainties, or gulp with nodding heads the unlucky
+angle-worms which come struggling to the surface&mdash;drowned out of their
+subterranean tunnels.</p>
+
+<p>Now we hear the snapping of the latch at the foot of the garret stairs,
+and we are called to come and see a little outcast that John has brought
+in from the wood-pile. Close beside the kitchen-stove a doubled piece of
+blanket lies upon the floor, and within its folds we find what once was
+a downy little chicken, now drenched and dying from exposure. He was a
+naughty, wayward child, and would persist in thinking that he knew more
+than his mother. At least so I was told&mdash;indeed, it was impressed upon
+me. But the little fellow was rescued just in time. The warmth will soon
+revive him, and by-and-by we shall hear his little chirp and see him
+trot around the kitchen-floor, pecking at that everlasting fly, perhaps,
+or at some tiny red-hot coal that snaps out from the stove.</p>
+
+<p>Little did we suspect the mission of those rainy days, so drear and
+dismal without, or the sweet surprise preparing for us in the myriad
+mysteries of life beneath the sod, where every root and thread-like
+rootlet in the thirsty earth was drinking in that welcome moisture, and
+numberless sleeping germs, dwelling in darkness, were awakening into
+life to seek the light of day, waiting only for the glory of a sunny
+dawn to burst forth from their hiding-places! That sunny morn does come
+at last, and in its beams it sheds abroad a power that stirs the deepest
+root. It is, indeed, a glorious day. The clustered buds upon the
+silver-maples burst in their exuberance, and fringe the graceful
+branches with their silken tassels. The restless crocus, for months an
+unwilling captive in its winter prison, can contain itself no longer,
+and with its little overflowing cup lifts up its face to the blue
+heaven. Golden daffodils burst into bloom on drooping stems, and
+exchange their little nods on right and left. The air is filled with a
+faint perfume, in which the very earth mould yields its fragrance&mdash;that
+wild aroma only known to spring. Our little feathered friends, so few
+and far between as yet, are full of song. The bluebird wooes his mate
+with a loving warble, full of tender sweetness, as they flit among the
+swaying twigs, or pry with diligent search for some snug nesting-place
+among the hollow crannies of the orchard trees. The noisy blackbirds
+hold high carnival in the top of the old pine-tree, the woodpecker taps
+upon the hollow limb his resonant tattoo, and the hungry crows, like a
+posse of<a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a> tramps, hang around the great oak-tree upon the knoll, and
+watch to see what they can steal. Down through the meadow the gurgling
+stream babbles as of old, and along its fretted banks the alder thickets
+are hanging full with drooping catkins swinging at every breeze. The
+glossy willow-buds throw off their coat of fur, and plume themselves in
+their wealth of inflorescence, lighting up the brook-side with a yellow
+glow, and exhaling a fresh, delicious perfume. Here, too, we hear the
+rattling screech of the swooping kingfisher, as with quick beats of wing
+he skims along the surface of the stream, and with an ascending glide
+settles upon the overhanging branch above the ripples. All these and a
+thousand more I vividly recall from the memory of that New England
+spring; but sweetest of all its manifold surprises was that crowning
+consummation, that miracle of a single night, bringing on countless
+wings through the early morning mist the welcome chorus of the returning
+flocks of birds. How they swarmed the orchard and the elms, where but
+yesterday the bluebird held his sway! Now we see the fiery oriole in his
+gold and jetty velvet flashing in the morning sun, and robins without
+number swell their ruddy throats in a continuous roundelay of song. The
+pert cat-bird in his Quaker garb is here, and with flippant jerk of tail
+and impertinent mew bustles about among the arbor-vitæs, where even now
+are remnants of his last year’s nest. The puffy wrens, too, what saucy,
+sputtering little bursts of glee are theirs as they strut upon the
+rustic boxes in the maples! The fields are vocal with their sweet spring
+medley, in which the happy carols of the linnets and the song sparrows
+form a continuous pastoral. Now we hear the mellow bell of the wood
+thrush echoing from some neighboring tree, and all intermingled with the
+chatter and the gossip of the martens on their lofty house. Birds in the
+sky, birds in the trees and on the ground, birds everywhere, and not a
+silent throat among them; but from far and near, from mountain-side and
+meadow, from earth and sky, uniting in a happy choral of perpetual
+jubilee.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg032_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg032_sml.jpg" width="353" height="460" alt="A HANDFUL FROM THE WOODS." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">A HANDFUL FROM THE WOODS.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Down in the moist green swamp lot the yellow cowslips bloom along the
+shallow ditch, and the eager farmer’s wife fills her basket with the
+succulent leaves she has been watching for so long; for they’ll tell you
+in New England that “they ain’t noth’n’ like caowslips for a mess o’
+greens.” Near by we see the frog pond, with lush growth of arrow leaves
+and pickerel weed, and flat blades of blue-flag just starting from the
+boggy earth. Half submerged upon a lily pad, close by the water’s edge,
+an ugly toad sits watching for some winged morsel for that ample mouth
+of his.<a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a></p>
+
+<p>Who could believe that so much poetic inspiration could emerge from such
+a mouth as that; for verily it is this miserable-looking toad that lifts
+his little voice in the dreamy, drowsy chorus of the twilight. All sorts
+of odium have been heaped upon the innocent toad; but he only returns
+good for evil. He is the farmer’s faithful friend. He guards his garden
+by day, and lulls him to sleep by night. Yonder, near those withered
+cat-tails, we see the village boys among the calamus-beds, pulling up
+the long white roots tipped with pink and fringed with trickling
+rootlets. What visions of candied flag-root stimulate them in their
+zeal! I can almost see the tender, juicy leaf-bud screened beneath that
+smooth pink sheath, and its aromatic pungency is as fresh and real to me
+as this appetizing fragrance that comes to us from the green tufts of
+spearmint we crush beneath our feet at every step. Bevies of swallows
+all around us skim through the air, like feathered darts, in their
+twittering flight; and the restless starling, like a field-marshal, with
+his scarlet epaulets, keeps sharp lookout for the enemy, and “flutes his
+O-ka-lee” from the high alder-bush at the slightest<a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a> approach upon his
+chosen ground. Yonder on the wooded slope the feathery shad-tree blooms,
+like a suspended cloud of drifting snow lingering among the gray twigs
+and branches; and chasing across the matted leaves beneath, a lively
+troop of youngsters, girls and boys, make the woods resound with their
+boisterous jubilee. A jolly band of fugitives fresh from the stormy
+week’s captivity&mdash;spring buds bursting with life, with a pent-up store
+of spirits that finds escape in an effervescence of ringing laughs and
+in a din of incessant jabber. Well I know the buoyant exhilaration that
+impels them on in their reckless frolic, as they skip from stone to
+stone across the rippling stream, or “stump” each other on the
+treacherous crossing-pole which spans the deep still current! Now I see
+them huddle around the trickling grotto among the mossy bowlders in the
+steep gully yonder, where the mountain spring bubbles into a crystal
+pool. Alas! how quickly its faint blue border of hepaticas is rifled by
+the ruthless mob! Now they clamber up the great gray rocks beneath the
+drooping hemlocks, stopping in their headlong zeal to snatch some
+trembling cluster of anemone, nodding from its velvety bed of moss; now
+plunging down on hands and knees, shedding innocent blood among an
+unsuspecting colony of fragile bloom&mdash;those glowing blossoms so welcome
+in the early spring! Who does not know the bloodroot&mdash;that shy recluse
+hiding away among the mountain nooks, that emblem of chaste purity with
+its bridal ring of purest gold? Who has not seen its tender leaf-wrapped
+buds lifting the matted leaves, and spreading their galaxy of snowy
+stars along the woodland path?</p>
+
+<p>Then there was the shy arbutus, too. Where in all the world’s bouquet is
+there another such a darling of a flower? And where in all New England
+does that darling show so full and sweet a face as in its home upon that
+sunny slope I have in mind, and know so well? Was ever such a fragrant
+tufted carpet spread beneath a hesitating foot? Even now, along the
+lichen-dappled wall upon the summit, I see the lingering strip of snow,
+gritty and speckled, and at its very edge, hiding beneath the covering
+leaves, those modest little faces looking out at me&mdash;faces which seemed
+to blush a deeper pink at their rude discovery. No other flower can
+breathe the perfume of the arbutus, that earthy, spicy fragrance, which
+seems as though distilled from the very leaf-mould at its roots. Often
+on this sunny slope, so sheltered by dense pines and hemlocks, have
+these charming clusters, pink and white, burst into bloom beneath the
+snow in March; and even on a certain late February day, we discovered a<a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>
+little, solitary clump, fully spread, and fairly ruddy with the cold.
+Here, too, we found the earliest sprays of the slender maidenhair; that
+fairy frond and loveliest among ferns, with black and lustrous stems,
+and graceful spread of tender gauzy green.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg034_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg034_sml.jpg" width="342" height="531" alt="AFTER ARBUTUS." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">AFTER ARBUTUS.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Where was the nook in all that hill-side woods that we left unsearched
+in our April ramblings? I recall the “tat,” “tat” upon the dry carpet of
+beech leaves, as the delicate anemone in my hand is dashed by a falling
+drop! Lost in eager occupation, we had not observed the shadow that had
+stolen through the forest; and now, as we look out through the trees, we
+see the steel-blue warning of the coming shower, and feel the first gust
+of the tell-tale breeze&mdash;how the willows wave and gleam against the deep
+gray clouds, so weirdly reflected in the gliding stream beneath, like an
+open seam to another sky! See the silvery flashes of that flock of
+pigeons circling<a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a> against the lurid background. No, we cannot stop to
+see them, for the rain-drops begin to patter thick and fast. Away we
+scamper to the shelter of the overhanging rocks. The lowering sky rolls
+above us through the branches. The glassy surface of the brook takes on
+a leaden hue as the rain-cloud drags its misty veil across the distant
+meadows. The brown leaves jump and spatter at my feet, and the blue
+liverwort flowers on right and left duck their heads like little living
+things dodging the pelting rain-drops.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg035_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg035_sml.jpg" width="349" height="455" alt="THE FAIRY FROND." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE FAIRY FROND.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Oh, the lovely fickleness an April day! Even now the distant hill is lit
+up by the bursting sun. Nearer and nearer the gleam creeps across the
+landscape, chasing the shower away, and in a moment more the meadows
+glow with a freshened green, and the trees<a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a> stand transfigured in
+glistening beads flashing in the sunbeams. The quickened earth gives
+forth its grateful incense, and even an enthusiastic frog down in the
+lily-pond sends up his little vote of thanks.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg036_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg036_sml.jpg" width="329" height="174" alt="AN APRIL DAY." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">AN APRIL DAY.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>April’s woods are teeming with all forms of life, if one will only look
+for them. On every side the ferns, curled up all winter in their dormant
+sleep, unroll their spiral sprays, and reach out for the welcome sun.
+The spicy colt’s-foot, or wild ginger, lifts its downy leaves among the
+mossy rocks and crevices, and its homely flower just peeps above the
+ground, and, with a lingering glance at the blushing <i>Rue anemone</i> close
+by, hangs its humble head, never to look up again. High above us the
+eccentric cottonwood-tree dangles its long speckled plumes, so silvery
+white. Now we hear a mellow drumming sound, as some unsuspecting grouse,
+concealed among the undergrowth near by, beats his resonant breast.
+Could we but get a glimpse of him, we would see him simulate the
+barn-yard gobbler, as with proud strut and spreading tail he disports
+himself upon some fallen log or mossy rock. Perhaps, too, that coy mate
+is near, admiring his show of gallantry, and holding a sly flirtation.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg037_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg037_sml.jpg" width="332" height="434" alt="AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Look at this craggy precipice of rock, lost above among the
+green-tasselled evergreens, and trickling with crystal drops from every
+drooping sprig of moss. How its rugged surface is painted with the
+mottled lichens of every hue, here like a faint tinge of cool
+sage-green, and there in large brown blotches of rich color! See the
+fringe of ferns that bursts from the fissure across its surface. There
+the trillium hangs its three-cleft<a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a> flower of rich maroon; and later we
+shall see the fern-like spray of Solomon’s-seal swinging its little row
+of straw-colored bells from the ledge above. Airy columbines, too, shall
+float their scarlet pendants on fragile stems, and with their graceful
+nod tell of the slightest breeze, when all else is still. What is that
+cinnamon-brown bird that hops along the stone wall yonder? Now he
+alights upon the tulip-tree, and swells his speckled breast in a series
+of short experiments&mdash;a broken song, in which every<a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a> note or call has
+its twin echo. A “mocking-thrush” he is, indeed, for he mimics his own
+song from morn till night in all the thickets and pasture-lands. Take
+care there! why, you almost trod upon that feathery tuft of “Dutchman’s
+breeches.” Oh, who is he that dared to clothe this sweet blossom in such
+an ignominious title? Where is the Dutchman that ever wore
+unmentionables of such exquisite pink satin as that pale <i>dicentra</i>
+wears? No wonder their little broken hearts droop at the insult!</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 336px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg038_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg038_sml.jpg" width="336" height="526" alt="THE COLUMBINE." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE COLUMBINE.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>The grotesque Jack-in-the-pulpit, rising above that crumbling log, is
+named more to my mind. There he stands beneath his striped canopy, and
+preaches to me a sermon on the well-remembered rashness of my youth in
+trifling with that subterranean bulb from which he grows. But I ignored
+his warning in those early days. I only knew that a real nice boy across
+the way seemed very fond of those little Indian turnips, called them
+“sugar-roots,” and said that they were full of honey. And as he bit off
+his eager mouthful, and refused to let me taste, I sought one for
+myself, and, generous boy that he was, he showed me where to find the
+buried treasure. It was like a small turnip, an innocent-looking affair
+(and so was the nice boy’s modelled piece of apple, by-the-way). But oh!
+the sudden revelation of the red-hot reservoir of chain-lightning that
+crammed that innocent bulb! Even as I think of it, how I long once more
+to interview that real nice boy who opened up the mysteries of the
+“sugar-root” to my tempted curiosity. Let boys beware of this wild,
+red-hot coal; and should they be impelled by a desire to test the
+unknown flavor, let them solace themselves with a less dangerous mixture
+of four papers of cambric needles and a spoonful of pounded glass. This
+will give a faint suggestion of the racy pungency of the Indian turnip.
+Were some kind friend at the present day to seek to kill me off with
+poisoned food, I should forthwith have him arrested on a charge of
+attempted murder, and incarcerated in the county jail. But what would be
+wilful homicide in the man is only a guileless proof of friendship in
+the boy, and his affections and their symptoms present a living paradox;
+and those boisterous days, with all their fond caresses in the way of
+fights and bruises and black eyes, and even Indian turnips, we all agree
+were full of fun the like of which we never shall see again.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 371px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg040_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg040_sml.jpg" width="371" height="442" alt="MEADOW BROOK." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">MEADOW BROOK.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>How well we remember those tramps along the meadow brook: the dark,
+still holes beneath the overhanging rocks, where, with golden slipping
+loop and pole and cautious creep, we wired those lazy, unsuspecting
+“suckers” on the gravelly bed below! Ah! what scientific angling with
+the rod and reel in later years has ever brought back the keen tingle of
+that primitive sport? The great green bull-frogs, too, in the lily-pond,
+disclosing their cavernous resources as they jumped and splashed and
+sprawled after the tantalizing bit of red flannel on that dangling hook!
+We recall that rickety bridge among the willows, and the mossy nest of
+mud so firmly fixed upon the beam beneath. How could we be so deaf to
+the pleading of those little phoebe-birds that fluttered so beseechingly
+about us? Then there was that deep hole in the sand-bank near the<a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>
+brook, where the burrowing kingfisher hid away his nest, where we
+watched in the twilight to see him enter, and, with big round stone in
+readiness, “plugged” him in his den! What fun it was to dig him out, and
+ventilate his musty nest of fish-bones! The starling in the thicket of
+the swamp circled through the air with angry “Quit! quit!” as we picked
+our way through the bristling bogs so close upon her nest. We’ll not
+forget that false step that sent us sprawling in the green slimy mud, at
+the first electrifying glimpse of those brown spotted eggs. The
+high-holer, too, whose golden gleam of wing upon the bare dead tree
+betrayed his nesting-place in the hollow limb&mdash;was ever such a stimulus
+offered to the eagerness of youth? Who would give a second thought to
+his tender shins at the prospect of such a prize as a nest of
+high-hole’s eggs? How round and white they were! how the pale golden
+yolk floated beneath the pearly shell! Those were jolly days for us; but
+the poor birds had to suffer, and few, indeed, were the nests that
+escaped our prying search. There was the cat-bird in the evergreens,
+with lovely eggs of peacock blue; the pure white treasures of the
+swallows in the mud nests under the barn-yard eaves; the sky-blue
+beauties of the robin; the brown speckled eggs in the sheltered nest of
+song-sparrows on the grassy slope; the dear little eggs of chippies in
+their<a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a> horse-hair bed, and in their midst the insinuated specimen of the
+cheeky cow-blackbird: there were eggs of every shape and hue, and we
+knew too well where to put our hand on them.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 339px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg041_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg041_sml.jpg" width="339" height="343" alt="THE PHŒBE’S NEST." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE PHŒBE’S NEST.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>In a flowering hawthorn outside our window we watched a loving pair
+building their pensile nest among the thorns and blossoms. How incessant
+was their solicitude for that fragile framework until its strength was
+fully assured against the tossing breeze! Tenderly and eagerly they
+helped each other in the disposition of those ravellings of string and
+strips of bark! he stopping every now and then to whisper sweetly to his
+mate, as she, with drooping, trembling wings, put up her little open
+bill to kiss. Yes, we often saw this little tender episode, as we
+watched them through the shutters of the half-closed blinds! Now he
+flies away; and the little spouse, thus left alone, jumps into the nest,
+and we see its mossy meshes swell as she fits the deep hollow to her
+feathery breast. Presently her consort returns, trailing along a
+gossamer of cobweb, which he throws around the supporting thorn, and
+leaves for her to spread and tuck among the crevices. Again<a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a></p>
+
+<p style="clear:both;">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg042_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg042_sml.jpg" width="339" height="533"
+alt="he appears, with his tiny bill concealed in a silvery puff of cotton from the willow
+catkins in the swamp; next he brings a wisp of long gray moss; now a
+curly flake of rich brown lichen, or a jagged square of birch bark, all
+of which are laid against the nest, and half covered with films of
+cobweb. Once more we see his tiny form among the hawthorn blossoms as he
+tugs a papery piece of hornets’ nest through the pink barricade. This is
+arranged to hang beneath as a pendant to their floating fabric, and the
+happy little couple sit together upon a neighboring twig in twittering
+admiration. And well they may, for a prettier nest than theirs"
+title="he appears, with his tiny bill concealed in a silvery puff of cotton from the willow
+catkins in the swamp; next he brings a wisp of long gray moss; now a
+curly flake of rich brown lichen, or a jagged square of birch bark, all
+of which are laid against the nest, and half covered with films of
+cobweb. Once more we see his tiny form among the hawthorn blossoms as he
+tugs a papery piece of hornets’ nest through the pink barricade. This is
+arranged to hang beneath as a pendant to their floating fabric, and the
+happy little couple sit together upon a neighboring twig in twittering
+admiration. And well they may, for a prettier nest than theirs" /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">BUILDING THE NEST.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a></p>
+<p class="nind">never hung upon a thorn. Not perfect yet, it seems, however, for that little
+feminine eye has seen the need of one more touch. Away she flies, and in
+a minute more a downy feather, tipped with iridescent green, is adjusted
+in the cobwebs.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg043_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg043_sml.jpg" width="333" height="404" alt="IN THE APPLE ORCHARD." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">IN THE APPLE ORCHARD.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>This dainty little work of art is only one of the thousands that
+everywhere are building in the blooming trees and thickets. These are
+the supreme moments of the spring, consecrated to the loves of bird and
+blossom. Every little winged form that scarcely bends the twig has its
+all-consuming passion, and every tree its wedding of the flower. Out in
+the orchard the apple-trees are laden in veritable domes of pink-white
+bloom, as if by the rare spectacle of a rosy fall of snow, and from
+among the dewy petals the army of bees give forth their low, continuous<a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>
+drone&mdash;that sympathetic chord in the universal harmony of spring. How
+they revel in that rich harvest! Who knows what sweet messages are borne
+from flower to flower upon those filmy wings?</p>
+
+<p>On the green slope beneath, the scattered dandelions gleam like drops of
+molten gold upon the velvety sward, and a lounging family group, intent
+upon that savory noonday relish, gather the basketfuls of the dainty
+plants for that appetizing “mess of greens.” Often, while thus engaged,
+have I stopped to watch the antics of the festive bumblebee, tumbling
+around in the tufted blossom&mdash;always an amusing sight. See how he rolls
+and wallows in the golden fringe, even standing on his head and kicking
+in his glee! Presently, with his long black nose thrust deep into the
+yellow puff, he stops to enjoy a quiet snooze in the luxurious bed&mdash;an
+endless sleep, for I generally took this chance to put him out of his
+misery, preferring, perhaps, to watch the robin hopping across the lawn.
+Now he stops, and seems to listen; runs a yard or so, and listens again,
+and without a sign of warning dips his head, and pulls upon an unlucky
+angle-worm that much prefers to go the other way. It is a well-known
+fact that angle-worms approach the surface of their burrows at the sound
+of rain-drops on the earth above. I sometimes wonder if the robin in its
+quick running stroke of foot intends to simulate that sound, and thus
+decoy its prey.</p>
+
+<p>I remember the wild tumult of a troop of boys upon the hill-side,
+tracking the swarming bees as they whirled along in a living tangle
+against the sky, now loosening in their dizzy meshes, now contracting in
+a murmuring hum around their queen, and finally settling on a branch in
+a pendent bunch about her. So tame and docile, too! seeming utterly to
+forget their fiery javelins as they hung in that brown filmy mass upon
+the bending bough! “A swarm of bees in May iz wuth a load o’ hay.” So
+said our neighbor, as with fresh clean hive he secured that prized
+equivalent. Here they are soon at home again, and we see their steady
+winged stream pouring out through the little door of their
+treasure-house, and the continual arrival of the little dusty
+plunderers, laden with their smuggled store of honey, and their
+saddle-bags replete with stolen gold. Down near the brook they find a
+land of plenty, literally flowing with honey, as the luxuriant drooping
+clusters of the locust-trees yield their brimful nectaries to the
+impetuous, murmuring swarm. But there is no lack now of flowery sweets
+for this buzzing colony. On every hand the meadow-sweets and milkweeds,
+the brambles, and the fragrant creeping-clover show their alluring<a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>
+colors in the universal burst of bloom, and not one escapes its tender
+pillaging.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg045_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg045_sml.jpg" width="333" height="480" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p>Up in the woods the gray has turned to tender green. The flowering
+dog-wood has spread its layers of creamy blossoms, giving the signal for
+the planting of the corn, and in the furrowed field we see that
+dislocated “man of straw,” with old plug hat jammed down upon his face,
+with wooden backbone sticking through his neck-band, and dirty thatch
+for a shirt bosom&mdash;a mocking outrage on any crow’s sagacity. Those
+glittering strips of tin, too! Could you but interpret the low croaking
+of the leader of that sable gang in yonder tree, you might hear of the
+appalling effect of these precautions. I heard him once as I sat quietly
+beneath a forest tree, and in the light of later events I readily
+recalled his remarks upon the occasion: “Say, fellers! look at that old
+fool down there hanging out those tins to show us where his corn is
+planted. Haw! haw! I swaw! cawn! cawn! we’ll go down thaw and take a
+chaw!” And they did; and they perched upon that old plug hat, and looked
+around for something<a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a> to get scared about. A single look at a crow shows
+that he has a long head, and it is not all mouth either.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 310px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg046_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg046_sml.jpg" width="310" height="535" alt="" /></a>
+</div>
+
+<p>Every day now makes a transformation in the landscape. The golden stars
+upon the lawn are nearly all burnt out: we see their downy ashes in the
+grass. Their virgin flame is quenched, and naught remains but those
+ethereal globes of smoke that rise up and float away with every breeze.
+Where is there in all nature’s marvels a more exquisite creation than
+this evanescent phœnix of the dandelion? Beautiful in life, it is
+even more beautiful in death. And now the high-grown grass is cloudy
+with its puffs, whose little fairy parachutes are sailing everywhere,
+over mountain-top and field. Here the corn has appeared in little waving
+plumes, and the horse and cultivator are seen breaking up the soil
+between the rows. Great snowy piles of cloud throw their gliding shadows
+across the patchwork of ploughed fields and meadows, fresh and<a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a></p>
+
+<p style="clear:both;">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg047_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg047_sml.jpg" width="330" height="529"
+
+alt="green with winter wheat, or tinged with newly sprouting grain. The sunbeams
+glow with a summer warmth, and the evaporation of the morning dews lifts
+the glistening diamonds from the gossamer films among the grass, and
+sends a quivering haze all through the air, in which the distant trees
+tremble in a softened glimmer. The woods are screened in dense foliage,
+and through the leafy canopy the merry birds dart and sing."
+
+title="green with winter wheat, or tinged with newly sprouting grain. The sunbeams
+glow with a summer warmth, and the evaporation of the morning dews lifts
+the glistening diamonds from the gossamer films among the grass, and
+sends a quivering haze all through the air, in which the distant trees
+tremble in a softened glimmer. The woods are screened in dense foliage,
+and through the leafy canopy the merry birds dart and sing." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">BLUE-FLAGS.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a></p>
+
+<p>The chickadees are here, and scarlet tanagers gleam like living bits of
+fire among the tantalizing leaves. Pert little vireos hop inquisitively
+about you, and the bell note of the wood-thrush echoes from the hidden
+tree-top overhead. Perhaps, too, you may chance upon a downy brood of
+quail cuddling among the dry leaves; but, even though you should, you
+might pass them by unnoticed, except as a mildewed spot of fungus at the
+edge of a fallen log or tree-stump, perhaps. The loamy ground is shaded
+knee-deep with rank growth of wood plants. The mossy, speckled rock is
+set in a fringe of ferns. Palmate sprays of ginseng spread in mid-air a
+luxurious carpet of intermingled leaves, interspersed with yellow spikes
+of loosestrife and pale lilac blooms of crane’s-bill; and the
+poison-ivy, creeping like a snake around that marbled beech, has
+screened its hairy trunk beneath its three-cleft shiny leaves. The
+mountain-laurel, with its deep green foliage and showy clusters, peers
+above that rocky crag; and in the bog near by a thicket of wild azalea
+is crowned with a profusion of pink blossoms.</p>
+
+<p>Out in the swamp meadow the tall clumps of boneset show their dull white
+crests, and the blue flowers of the flag, the mint, and pickerel weed
+deck the borders of the lily pond. The waddling geese let off their
+shrieking calliopes as they sail out into the stream, or browse with
+nodding twitch along the grassy bank. Swarms of yellow butterflies
+disgrace their kind as they huddle around the greenish mud-holes, and we
+hear on every side the “z-zip, z-zip,” amidst the din of a thousand
+crickets and singing locusts among the reeds and rushes. The meadows
+roll and swell in billowy waves, bearing like a white-speckled foam upon
+their crests a sea of daisies, with here and there a floating patch of
+crimson clover, or a golden haze of butter-cups. Rising suddenly from
+the tall grass near by, the gushing brimful bobolink crowds a
+half-hour’s song into a brief pell-mell rapture, beating time in mid-air
+with his trembling wings, and alighting on the tall fence-rail to regain
+his breath. A coy meadow-lark shows his yellow-breast and crescent above
+the windrow yonder, and we hear the ringing beats of whetted scythes,
+and see the mowers cut their circling swath.</p>
+
+<p>Mowing! Why, how is this? This surely is not Spring. But even thus the
+Springtime leads us into Summer. No eye can mark the soft transition,
+and ere we are aware the sweet fragrance of the new-mown hay breathes
+its perfumed whisper, “Behold, the Spring has fled!<a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>”</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a></p>
+
+<h2><a name="SUMMER" id="SUMMER"></a>S<small>UMMER</small>.</h2>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg050_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg050_sml.jpg" width="99" height="120" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg051_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg051_sml.jpg" width="318" height="489" alt="THE CONSUMMATION" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a></p>
+
+<p><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg053_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg053_sml.jpg" width="317" height="527" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="letra">“A</span>LL
+out for Hometown.” There is an epidemic of eagerness, a general
+bustle for satchels and bundles, and the car is soon almost without a
+passenger; and, indeed, it would really seem as though the whole train
+had landed its entire human burden upon this platform; for Hometown is a
+popular place, and<a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a> every Saturday evening brings just such an exodus as
+this: Husbands and fathers who fly from the hot and crowded city for a
+Sunday of quiet and content with their families, who year after year
+have found a refuge of peace and comfort in this charming New England
+town. Where is it? Talk with almost any one familiar with the
+picturesque boroughs of the Housatonic, and your curiosity will be
+gratified, for this village will be among the first to be described.</p>
+
+<p>From the platform of the car we step into the midst of a motley
+assemblage, rustic peasantry and fashionable aristocracy intermingled.
+Anxious and eager faces meet you at every turn. For a few minutes the
+air fairly rings with kisses, as children welcome fathers, and fathers
+children. Strange vehicles crowd the depot&mdash;vehicles of all sizes and
+descriptions, from the veritable “one-hoss shay” to the dainty
+basket-phaeton of fashion. One by one the merry loads depart, while I, a
+pilgrim to my old home, stand almost unrecognized by the familiar faces
+around me. Leaning up against the porch near by, stands a character
+which, once seen, could never be forgotten. His face is turned from me,
+but the old straw hat I recognize as the hat of ten years ago, with brim
+pulled down to a slope in front, and pushed up vertically behind, and
+the identical hole in the side with the long hair sticking through. Yes,
+there he stands&mdash;Amos Shoopegg. I step up to him and lay my hand upon
+his shoulder. With creditable skill he unwinds the twist of his
+intricate legs, and with an inquiring gaze turns his good-natured face
+toward me.</p>
+
+<p>“Is it possible that you don’t remember me, Shoop?”</p>
+
+<p>With an expression of surprise he raises both his arms. “Wa’al, thar! I
+swaiou! I didn’t cal’late on runnin’ agin yeu. I was jes drivin’ hum
+from taown-meetin’, an’ thought as haow I’d take a turn in, jest out o’
+cur’osity. Wa’al, naow, it’s pesky good to see yeu agin arter sech a
+long spell. I didn’t re<i>cog</i>nize ye at fust, but I swan when ye began
+a-talkin’, that was enuf fer me. Hello! fetched yer woman ’long tew,
+hey? Haow air yeu, ma’am? hope ye’er perty tol’ble. Don’t see but what
+yeu look’s nateral’s ever; but yer man here, I declar for’t, he got the
+best on me at fust;” and after having thus delivered himself, he
+swallowed up our hands in his ample fists.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, Shoop, I thought I’d just run up to the old home for a few days.”</p>
+
+<p>“Wa’al, I swar! I’m tarnal glad to see ye, and that’s a fact. Anybody
+cum up arter ye? No? Well, then, s’posin’ ye jest highst into my team.<a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>”
+So saying, he unhitched a corrugated shackle-jointed steed, and backed
+around his indescribable impromptu covered wagon&mdash;a sort of a hybrid
+between a “one-hoss shay” and a truck.</p>
+
+<p>“’Tain’t much of a kerridge fer city folks to ride in, that’s a fact,”
+he continued, “but I cal’late it’s a little better’n shinnin’ it.” After
+some little manœuvring in the way of climbing over the front seat, we
+were soon wedged in the narrow compass, and, with an old horse-blanket
+over our knees, we went rattling down the hill toward the village and
+home of my boyhood.</p>
+
+<p>Years have passed since those days when, as a united family, we dwelt
+under that old roof; but those who once were children are now men and
+women, with divided interests and individual homes. The old New England
+mansion is now a homestead only in name, known so only in recollections
+of the past and the possibilities of the future.</p>
+
+<p>“Wa’al, thar’s the old house,” presently exclaimed Amos, as we neared
+the brow of a declivity looking down into the valley below. “Don’t look
+quite so spruce as’t did in the old times, but Warner’s a good keerful
+tenant, ’tain’t no use talkin’. I cal’late yeu might dig a pleggy long
+spell afore yeu could git another feller like him in this ’ere patch.”</p>
+
+<p>In the vale below, in its nest of old maples and elms, almost screened
+from view by the foliage, we look upon the familiar outlines of the old
+mansion, its diamond window in the gable peering through the branches at
+us. “Skedup!” cried Amos, as he urged his pet nag into a jog-trot down
+the hill, through the main street of the town. The long fence in front
+of the homestead is soon reached, a sharp turn into the drive, a “Whoa,
+January!” and we are extricated from the wagon.</p>
+
+<p>“Wa’al, I’ll leave ye naow. I guess ye kin find yer way around,” said
+Shoop, as with one outlandish geometrical stride he lifted himself into
+the wagon. Cordially greeted by our hostess, with repeated urgings to
+“make ourselves at home,” we were shown to our room. The house, though
+clad in a new dress, still retained the same hospitable and cosy look as
+of old.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg056_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg056_sml.jpg" width="308" height="357" alt="OLD HOMESTEAD AND GARRET." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">OLD HOMESTEAD AND GARRET.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Hometown, owing to some early local faction, is divided into two
+sections, forming two distinct towns. One, Newborough, a hill-top
+hamlet, with its picturesque long street, a hundred feet in width, and
+shaded with great weeping elms that almost meet overhead; and the other,
+Hometown proper, a picturesque little village in the valley, cuddling
+close around the foot of a precipitous bluff, known as Mount Pisgah. A
+mile’s distance<a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a> separates the two centres. The old homestead is
+situated in the heart of Hometown, fronting on the main street. The
+house itself is a series of after-thoughts, wing after wing and gable
+after gable having clustered around the old nucleus, as the growth of
+new generations necessitated increased accommodation. Its outward aspect
+is rather modern, but the interior, with its broad open fireplaces, and
+accessaries in the shape of cranes and fire-dogs, is rich with all the
+features of typical New England; and the two gables of the main roof
+enclose the dearest old garret imaginable&mdash;at present an asylum for the
+quaint possessions of antique furniture and bric-à-brac, removed from
+their accustomed quarters on the advent of<a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a> the new host. It is to this
+sanctuary that my footsteps first lead me, and, with a longing that will
+not be withstood, I find myself in front of the great white door. I lift
+the latch; a cool pungent odor of oak wood greets me as I ascend the
+steep stairs&mdash;an odor that awakens, like magic, a hundred fancies, and
+recalls a host of memories long forgotten. Every stair seems to creak a
+welcome, as when, on the rainy days of long ago, we sought the cosy
+refuge to hear the patter on the roof, or to nestle in the dark, obscure
+corners in our childish games. At the head of the stairs rises the
+ancient chimney, cleft in twain at the foot, with the quaint little
+cuddy between. Above me stretch the great beams of oak, like iron in
+their hardness. Yonder is the queer old diamond window looking out upon
+the village church, its panes half obscured by the dusty maze of webs.
+To the left, in a shadowy corner, stands the antiquated wheel&mdash;a relic
+of past generations. Long gray cobwebs festoon the rafters overhead, and
+the low buzzing of a wasp betrays its mud nest in the gable above. A
+sense of sadness steals over me as I sit gazing into this still chamber.
+On every side are mementos of a happy past, and all, though mute,
+speaking to me in a language whose power stirs the depths of my soul.
+Wherever the eye may turn, it meets with a silent greeting from an old
+friend, and the whole shrouded in a weird gloom that lends to the most
+common object an air of melancholy mystery. And yet it is only a garret.
+There are some, no doubt, for whom this word finds its fitting synonyme
+in the dictionary, but there are others to whom it sings a poem of
+infinite sweetness.</p>
+
+<p>Looking through the dingy window between the maple boughs, my eye
+extends over lawn and shrubberies, three acres in extent&mdash;a little park,
+overrun with paths in every direction, through ancient orchard and
+embowered dells, while far beyond are glimpses of the wooded knolls, the
+winding brook, and meadows dotted with waving willows, and farther still
+the ample undulating farm.</p>
+
+<p>It is in such a place as this that I have sought recreation and change
+of scene. My wife and I have run away from the city for a month or so. A
+vacation we call it; but to an artist such a thing is rarely known in
+its ordinary sense, and often, indeed, it means an increase of labor
+rather than a respite. My first week, however, I had consecrated to
+luxurious idleness. Together we wandered through the old familiar
+rambles where as boy and girl in earlier days we had been so oft
+together. Day after day found us in some new retreat. There were dark
+cool nooks by sheltered<a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg058_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg058_sml.jpg" width="342" height="537"
+alt="streams, spicy groves of pine and spruce,
+wooded slopes and rocky dells, and meadows rich with summer bloom, where
+idle butterflies flitted lazily on the wing; where meadow lilies nodded
+in billowing fields, and the daisies and red clover waved about our
+knees half screened in feathery purple grasses that spread their cloudy"
+
+title="streams, spicy groves of pine and spruce,
+wooded slopes and rocky dells, and meadows rich with summer bloom, where
+idle butterflies flitted lazily on the wing; where meadow lilies nodded
+in billowing fields, and the daisies and red clover waved about our
+knees half screened in feathery purple grasses that spread their cloudy" />
+<br /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">AMONG THE GRASSES.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a></p>
+
+<p class="nind">mist all through the blossoming maze. We heard the music of the scythe,
+and, sitting in the deep cool grass beneath the maple shade, we watched
+the circling motion of the mowers in the field&mdash;saw the forkfuls of the
+hay tossed in the drying sun, and breathed the perfumed air that floated
+from the windrows. We sauntered by the meadow brook where willows
+gleamed along the bank, and overhanging alders threw their sombre
+shadows in the quiet pools: where the ground-nut, and the meadow-rue,
+and the creeping madder fringed the tangled brink, and every footstep
+started up some agile frog that plunged into the unseen water. We stood
+where rippling shallows gurgled under festooned canopies of fox-grape,
+and the leaning linden-trees shut out the sky o’erhead and intertwined
+their drooping branches above the gliding current. Here, too, the
+weather-beaten crossing-pole makes its tottering span across the stream,
+and deep down beneath the bank the rainbow-tinted sunfish floats on
+filmy fins above his yellow bed of gravel, and we catch a flashing gleam
+of a silvery dace or shiner turning in the water.</p>
+
+<p>Now we confront a rude slab fence, an ancient landmark, that terminates
+its length at the edge of the stream, where its gray and crumbling
+boards are secured with rusty nails against the trunk of a tall
+buttonwood-tree. A loosened slab is easily found, and we are soon upon
+the other side; and after picking our way through a forest of
+bush-elders, we emerge upon an open lot of low flat pasture-land, known
+always as the “old swamp meadow.” No other five acres on the face of the
+earth are so dear to me as this neglected field. I know its every rise
+and fall of ground, its every bog, and its lush greenness is refreshing
+even to the thought.</p>
+
+<p>It is a luxuriant garden of all manner of succulent and juicy
+vegetation; an outbursting extravagance of plant life of almost tropical
+exuberance. All New England’s most majestic and ornamental flora seem
+congregated in its congenial soil; and even when a boy I learned to know
+and love them all, and even call them by their names.</p>
+
+<p>Here are towering stems of iron-weed lifting high their scattered purple
+crowns, and in their midst the woolly clumps of boneset, its white
+flowered cushions intermingling with the dense pink tufts of
+thorough-wort.</p>
+
+<p>On every side we overlook whole patches of these splendid blossoms, with
+their crests closely crowded in a mosaic of pink and white. And here’s a
+bed of peppermint and spearmint, interspersed with flaming<a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a> spikes of
+cardinal lobelia; and here a lusty plant of Indian mallow, entangled in
+a maze of gold-thread and smart-weed. Here are massive burdocks six feet
+high, and great trees of jimson-weed, with their large spiral flowers
+and thorny pods.</p>
+
+<p>High fronds of chain-fern rise up on every side from a jungle of
+bur-marigolds and clotburs, and tear-thumbs, with their saw-toothed
+stems and tiny bunches of pink blossoms.</p>
+
+<p>No inch of ground in the old swamp lot but which does its tenfold duty;
+and what it lacks in quality of produce it amply makes up in quantity.
+Even a neighboring bed of clean-washed gravel is overrun with creeping
+mallow, with its rounded leaves and little “cheeses” down among their
+shadows.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg060_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg060_sml.jpg" width="295" height="366" alt="EVEN-TIDE." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">EVEN-TIDE.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Farther on we see the lily-pond, with its surrounding swamp and its
+legion of crowded water-plants. Here are rank, massive beds of
+swamp-cabbage,<a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a> and lofty cat-tails by the thousand among the bristling
+bogs of tussock-sedge and bulrush. Here are calamus patches, and alder
+thickets, and sedges without number; and the prickly carex and blue-flag
+abound on every side. There are galingales and reeds, and tall and
+graceful rushes, turtle-head and jointed scouring grass, and horse-tail,
+besides a host of other old acquaintances, whose faces are familiar, but
+whose names I never knew. But they were all my friends in boyhood. I
+knew them in the bud and in the blossom, and even in their winter
+skeletons, brown and broken in the snow. Near by there is a ditch: you
+never would know it, for it is completely hidden from view beneath an
+interlacing growth of jewel-weed. But see that gorgeous mass of deep
+scarlet that floods the farther bank! Nowhere within a circuit of miles
+around is there such a regal display of cardinal flowers as this:
+skirting the borders of the ditch for rods and rods, clustering about a
+ruined, tumbling fence, whose moss-grown pickets are almost hidden in
+the dense profusion of bloom.</p>
+
+<p>Then there is its airy companion, the “touch-me-not,” with its
+translucent, juicy stem, and its queer little golden flowers with
+spotted throats&mdash;the “jewel-weed” we used to call it. I know not why,
+unless from the magic of its leaf, which, when held beneath the water,
+was transformed to iridescent frosted silver. We all remember its
+sensitive, jumping seed-pods, that burst even at our approach for fear
+that we should touch them; but no one can fully appreciate the beauty of
+the plant who has not seen its silvery leaf beneath the water. Here it
+justifies its name, for it is indeed a jewel.</p>
+
+<p>How often in those olden times have I lain down among these bulrushes
+and sedges near the lily pond, and listened to the buzzing songs of the
+crickets and the tiny katydids that swarmed the growth about me, and
+filled the air with their incessant din. I remember the little colony of
+ants that picked their way among the rushes; that gauzy dragon-fly too,
+that circled and dodged about the water’s edge, now skimming close upon
+the surface, now darting out of sight, or perhaps alighting on an
+overhanging sedge, as motionless as a mounted specimen, with wings
+aslant and fully spread. “Devil’s darning-needles” they were called. The
+devil may well be proud of them; for darning-needles of such precious
+metals and such exquisite design are rare indeed. They were of several
+sizes too. Some were large, and flashed the azure of the sapphire;
+others fluttered by with smoky, pearly wings, and slender bodies
+glittering in the light like<a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a> animated emeralds: and another I well
+remember, a little airy thing, with a glistening sunbeam for a body, and
+wings of tiny rainbows.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg062_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg062_sml.jpg" width="345" height="523" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p>I remember how I watched the disturbed motion of the arrow-heads out in
+the water, as the cautious turtles worked their way among them, and
+crawled out upon the stump close by.</p>
+
+<p>Here they huddled together, a dozen or more, with heads erect, and
+turning from side to side as they surveyed the surrounding carpet of
+lily-pads, or listened to the bass-drum chorus of the great green
+bull-frogs among the pickerel-weed; and when I jumped and yelled at
+them, what a rolling, sprawling, splashing in the mud! It fairly makes
+me laugh to think of it. But there is hardly a leaf or wisp of grass in
+this old swamp lot but what brings back some old association or pleasant
+reminiscence.<a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a></p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 324px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg063_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg063_sml.jpg" width="324" height="518" alt="" /></a>
+</div>
+
+<p>For a week thus we idled, now on the mountain, now in the meadow, while
+I, with my sketch-book and collecting-box, either whiled away the hours
+with my pencil, or left the unfinished work to pursue the tantalizing
+butterfly, or search for unsuspecting caterpillars among the weeds and
+bushes.</p>
+
+<p style="clear:both;"></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg064_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg064_sml.jpg" width="309" height="446" alt="SOME ART CONNOISSEURS." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">SOME ART CONNOISSEURS.</span>
+</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 319px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg065_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg065_sml.jpg" width="319" height="514" alt="PROFESSOR WIGGLER." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">PROFESSOR WIGGLER.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>On a sprig of black alder I found one&mdash;the same little fellow as of old,
+afflicted with the peculiarities of all his progenitors. We used to call
+him “Professor Wiggler,” owing to an hereditary nervous habit of
+wiggling his head from side to side when not otherwise<a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a> employed. To
+this little humpbacked creature I am indebted for a great deal of past
+amusement. Distinctly I remember the whack-whack-whack on the inside of
+the old pasteboard box as the captive pets threatened to dash out their
+brains in their demonstrations at my approach. Professor Wiggler is
+really a most remarkable insect, as one might readily imagine from his
+scientific name, for in learned circles this individual is known as Mr.
+Gramatophora Trisignata. He has many strange eccentricities. At each
+moult of the skin he retains the shell of his former<a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a> head on a long
+vertical filament. Two or three thus accumulate, and, as a consequence,
+in his maturer years he looks up to the head he wore when he was a
+youngster, and ponders on the flight of time and the hollowness of
+earthly things, or perhaps congratulates himself on the increased
+contents of his present shell. When fully grown, he stops eating, and
+goes into a new business. Selecting a suitable twig, he gnaws a
+cylindrical hole to its centre and follows the pith, now and then
+backing out of the tunnel, and dropping the excavated material in the
+form of little balls of sawdust. At length he emerges from the hollow,
+and again drawing himself in backward, spins a silken disk across the
+opening, and tints it with the color of the surrounding bark. Here he
+spends the winter, and comes out in a new spring suit in the following
+May. Only recently I had in my possession several of these twigs with
+their enclosed caterpillars, and in every one the color of the silken
+lid so closely matched the tint of the<a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a> adjacent bark, although
+different in each, that several of my friends, even with the most
+careful scrutiny, failed to detect the deceptive spot. Whether the
+result of chance or of the instincts of the insect, I do not know; but
+certain it is that he paints with different colors under varying
+circumstances.</p>
+
+<p>Insect-hunting had always been a passion with me. Large collections of
+moths and butterflies had many times accumulated under my hands, only to
+meet destruction through boyish inexperience; and even in childhood the
+love for the insect and the passion for the pencil strove hard for the
+ascendency, and were only reconciled by a combination which filled my
+sketch-book with studies of insect life.</p>
+
+<p>There was one inhabitant of our fields which had always been to me a
+never-failing source of entertainment. There he is, the gilded tyrant. I
+see him now swinging to and fro on his glistening nest of silken
+threads, his golden yellow form glowing in bold relief against the dark
+recess in the brambles. My sketch is left in the grass, and I am soon
+seated in front of the gossamer maze. A festive grasshopper jumps up
+into my face, and makes a carom on the web. With a spasmodic snap of one
+hind leg he extricates it from its entanglement, and in another instant
+would fall from the meshes; but the agile spider is too quick for him.
+With a movement so swift as almost to elude the eye, he draws from his
+body a silver cloud of floss, and with his long hind legs throws it over
+his captive. The head and tail of the grasshopper are now further
+secured, after which the spider carefully straddles around the
+struggling insect, and bites off the other radiating webs in close
+proximity. The unlucky prey now hangs suspended across the opening. With
+business-like coolness his tormentor dangles himself from the edge of
+the torn web, and another cataract of glistening floss is thrown up and
+attached to the under side of the prisoner, after which he is turned
+round and round, as if on a spit. The stream of floss is carried from
+head to foot, and in less time than it takes to describe it the victim
+is wrapped in a silken winding-sheet, and soon meets his death from the
+poisoned fangs of his captor. Here is but one of the thousands of
+tragedies that are taking place every hour of the day in our fields.
+While deeply interested in the closing scenes of this one, I suddenly
+become aware of a shadow passing over the bushes. I turn my head, and
+meet the puzzled and pleasant gaze of Amos Shoopegg, as he stands there,
+hands in pockets, and milk-pail swinging from his wrist.<a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg067_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg067_sml.jpg" width="314" height="521"
+alt="“Wa’al, thar,” he exclaims, banging down one brawny fist on his uplifted
+knee. “Buggin’ agin, I swaow! Hain’t yeu got over thet yit? What yeu kin
+find so mighty fine in them ’ere bugs beats me.
+
+“Amos,” I replied, “there’s a great deal more in these bugs than you
+imagine.”
+
+“A pleggy sight, I suppose,” he resumed. “What specie o’ critter ye got
+hold on naow?” and he stretched for-”"
+
+title="“Wa’al, thar,” he exclaims, banging down one brawny fist on his uplifted
+knee. “Buggin’ agin, I swaow! Hain’t yeu got over thet yit? What yeu kin
+find so mighty fine in them ’ere bugs beats me.
+
+“Amos,” I replied, “there’s a great deal more in these bugs than you
+imagine.”
+
+“A pleggy sight, I suppose,” he resumed. “What specie o’ critter ye got
+hold on naow?” and he stretched for-”" /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE TYRANT OF THE FIELDS.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p class="nind">ward<a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a> his fringed and weather-beaten
+neck, and peered over the brambles. “What is’t ye got
+thar&mdash;straddle-bug?” He came still nearer, and looked at the spider.
+“Wa’al, darn my pictur ef ’tain’t an old yeller-belly! P’r’aps you don’t
+know that them critters is pizen. Why, Eben Sanford’s gal got all chawed
+up by one on ’em. Great Sneezer!” he exclaimed, taking three or four
+strides backward, with both hands uplifted. I had merely raised my hand
+and gently smoothed the spider.</p>
+
+<p>“Wa’al,” he continued, “yen kin rub ’em daown ef yeu pleze; but fer <i>my</i>
+part, I’d ruther keep off abaout a good spittin’ distance”&mdash;which was
+the Shoopegg way of expressing a length of about fifteen feet. Amos was
+crossing lots for his “caow,” he said; but in spite of his plea that the
+“old heiffer” was “bellerin’” like “Sam Hill,” and was “gittin’ ’tarnal
+on-easy,” I made him tarry sufficiently long to enable me to send him
+off a wiser man.</p>
+
+<p>Amos Shoopegg is a type of a large class of the native element of
+Hometown. Of course, “Shoopegg” is not his actual name. In the long line
+of his prided Puritan ancestry no one ever bore it before him. This is
+only an affectionate epithet given him by the village boys full twenty
+years ago, and it has stuck to him closer than a brother ever since, as
+those festive surnames always do. Nominally, Amos was a farmer. In
+summer he was one in fact, and could swing off as pretty a swath in
+haying as any man in town. But in the winter he changed his vocation,
+and became a disciple of the “waxed-end.” All day long he could be seen,
+closeted with a little red-hot stove, plying his trade in his small,
+square shop, up near the old red school-house. Here he pounded on the
+big lapstone on his knees, or, with strap and foot-stick in position,
+punched and tugged around the edge of those marvellous brogans. He made
+slings and leather “suckers” for the boys, and furnished them with all
+the black-wax they could chew&mdash;or stow-away, to stick between the lining
+of their pockets. And the huge wooden shoe-pegs that he drove beneath
+his hammer were a sight to behold. The man who used his “cheap line of
+goods” might verily say he walked upon a wood-pile.</p>
+
+<p>So they dubbed him “Shoe-peg,” or “Shoop” for brevity. There are others
+among his neighbors who would furnish an inexhaustible source of study
+to the student of character. There’s old Rufus Fairchild, known as
+“Roof,” a rotund specimen of rural jollity, his round face set in
+dishevelled locks of gray, with a twinkle in his eye and a good word for
+everybody. And there’s Father Tomlinson, who keeps the post-office down
+by<a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a> the dam, as genial an old fellow as ever wrapped up his throat in a
+white stock. And I might almost continue the list indefinitely. But
+there is one I must especially mention; and, now that I think of it, he
+really should have headed the list, for he stands alone&mdash;or at least he
+does <i>sometimes</i>. If you are in search of the embodiment of typical
+Erin, you need go no farther; here he is. This individual represents
+another nationality which swells the population of Hometown&mdash;the
+hard-working laborers who toil in the great factory down in the glen,
+called “Satan’s Misery.” The above personage is one of the best-hearted
+creatures in the town; but it is the old story, and the world to him is
+enclosed in the compass of a barrel-hoop. When last I saw him he was in
+an evident decline, but as I put my finger on his wrist I could still
+feel the pulsations of the whiskey coursing through his veins.</p>
+
+<p>“Look here, my good fellow,” I said to him one day, “why don’t you taper
+off a little? If you keep on in this way, you’ll be in your grave in
+less than a month. How would you like that?”</p>
+
+<p>“Arrah, begorra,” he replied, with a look of hopeful resignation, “if I
+cud awnly be shure o’ me gude skvare dthrink in the other wurrld, oi
+wudn’t moind.”</p>
+
+<p>The record of a single evening spent in the village store, with its
+rural jargon and homespun yarns, its odd vernacular and rustic gossip,
+would make a volume as rare and unique as the characters it would
+depict.</p>
+
+<p>The store itself is a matchless picture in its way, and for variety in
+accessory is as rich as could be wished for. The low, murky ceiling,
+hung with all manner of earthly goods&mdash;scythes and rakes, boots and
+pails, in pendulous array; bottles and boxes, brooms and breast-pins,
+are here&mdash;in short, everything that heart could wish or thought suggest,
+from speckled calicoes to seven-cent sugar, or from a three-tined fork
+to a goose-yoke. Evening after evening, for an hour or so, I was tempted
+thither, until I found the week had gone. Sunday came again&mdash;Sunday in
+New England. The old bell swung on its wheel in the belfry, ringing out
+its call to devotion, and ere the echo had died in the recesses of the
+mountain beyond the still atmosphere reverberated with an answering peal
+from the little sister church in the valley below, as the scattered
+groups with strolling steps wend their way to “meeting,” and the gay
+loads from Newborough go flitting by on the accustomed Sunday drive.</p>
+
+<p>Monday dawned on Hometown. It found me up and doing. I had<a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a> enjoyed one
+week of glorious loafing, but work was the programme for the next. I
+went to Draper’s Inn and engaged a horse and buggy “until further
+notice.” “A spang-up team” he called it, and it would be up “in half a
+jiffy.” We were waiting for it when it came, and what with our variety
+of luggage in the shape of canvases, color-boxes, hammocks, camp-seats,
+and easels, every bit of available space in that buggy was well
+utilized. Before the clock has struck nine, we are spinning along down
+through the village, now past the store, now over the bridge, and
+turning to the right, we glide by the little post-office, as the kind
+face of Father Tomlinson nods a “good-bye” from the door-way.</p>
+
+<p>A little farther, and we have left the little slope-roofed school-house
+in our path, and are soon ascending the long hill of Zoar, from which we
+look back four miles to the cliff and nestling town. In ten minutes more
+we approach the brow of a steep declivity, and the broad Housatonic
+opens up to view, winding off into the misty mountains in the distance.
+There is now a drive of half a mile along the side of a wild
+mountain-slope, where mountain-laurels grow in wild profusion, and the
+rooty, overhanging banks are tufted with rich green moss, overgrown with
+checker-berries and arbutus. The river roars far down below us, and for
+a few minutes our eyes feast on as lovely an extent of varied New
+England landscape as is easily found. And yet this is only a short
+section of one of the many matchless drives that follow the course of
+this beautiful river around the borders of Hometown.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 245px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg070_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg070_sml.jpg" width="245" height="244" alt="FAMILIAR FACES AT THE VILLAGE STORE." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">FAMILIAR FACES AT THE VILLAGE STORE.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Suddenly we leave the stream as it glides away on an abrupt turn beneath
+the crescent of a rocky precipice, and before we have fairly lost the
+sound of the ripples we have arrived at our journey’s end. A pair of<a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>
+bars under an old butternut-tree mark the place. The carriage is backed
+to the side of the road, and the horse turned loose in the rocky meadow.
+This is Joab Nichols’s “pasture lot,” with fodder consisting principally
+of huge boulders, hardhack, and spleenwort; to be sure, with a stray
+relish of “butter-and-eggs” here and there, and a thousand white saucers
+of wild carrot handy to go with them. One or two trips across the field
+bring all our luggage, and we are soon enjoying cool comfort in the
+hemlock shade of a fairy grotto. Above us the babbling brook bounds and
+splashes over mossy rocks, disappearing in a mass of creamy foam, from
+under which it eddies toward us only to plunge twenty feet into a
+miniature cañon below. Again, yonder it bubbles into a whirling pool,
+where the bordering ferns bend and nod above its buoyant surface; and
+now gliding from view beneath the tangle of drooping boughs, it
+disappears only to burst forth once more in its merry song as it rushes
+over the rapids.</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">“I chatter, chatter as I go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">To join the brimming river;<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For men may come and men may go,<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But I go on forever.”<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p>Here in this wild retreat I have found my sylvan studio&mdash;shut in by
+fringed and fragrant evergreens, enlivened by the undergrowth of
+feathery fronds, and the shimmer of the beech, as the tracery of
+overhanging boughs trembles in the gentle breeze. Day after day finds us
+in this little paradise, and as one in luxurious hammock swings away the
+hours, now lost in fiction, now in short repose, or perhaps with busy
+needle fashions graceful figures in Kensington design, the canvas on the
+easel shows a fortnight’s constant care, and the palette changes to a
+keepsake of a sunny memory&mdash;a tinted souvenir.</p>
+
+<p>For two weeks the gurgling brook sang to us in this wild retreat. As
+evening after evening closed in upon us, the unfinished pictures were
+stowed away in horizontal crevices between the rocks, and, with hammock
+still swinging in the trees, we left the gloom to the hooting owl, that
+evening after evening, with tremulous cry, proclaimed the twilight hour
+from the tall hemlock overhead. Ere long the murmuring Housatonic
+shimmers below us in the moonlight as we hurry on our homeward way, and
+the distant lights of Hometown are soon seen glimmering; through the
+evening mist. The old bridge now rumbles through the darkness its signal
+of our return, and the host of Draper’s Inn is seen awaiting us at the<a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>
+illumined door-way. A quiet, cosy supper, and in the rays of a gleaming
+lantern, held aloft to light our path, we follow our lengthening shadows
+to the old front gate. Repeat this day’s record fourteen times, and you
+have the sum of a happy experience, with but one drawback: it had an
+end&mdash;an end that would have left its reaction, were it not for the store
+of increased pleasure that awaited us for the few closing days of our
+pilgrimage&mdash;for me, at least, although in other scenes, its climax.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg072_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg072_sml.jpg" width="286" height="451" alt="A SOUVENIR." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">A SOUVENIR.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Many like me are happy in the possession of a dear old homestead; but
+there are few, I ween, who enjoy the blessing of a double inheritance
+such as has been my lot&mdash;two homes which share my equal devotion, two
+homes without a choice; the one this beloved heirloom in Hometown, and
+the other&mdash;But you shall see. We shall be there soon, for the little
+satchel is packed, and the carriage awaits us at the gate. A drive of
+eighteen miles is before us&mdash;a beautiful series of pictures. Down
+through the village, past the old red mill and smithy, with its ringing
+anvil, and we are soon winding our<a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a> way through a sombre glen. Presently
+we catch glimpses of the great rumbling factory, with its clouds of
+smoke and steam melting into the wooded mountain above. The old yellow
+bridge now creaks under our approach, and ere we are aware a sudden turn
+leads us out of a wilderness on to the shore of the beautiful
+Housatonic. For a few minutes the rushing water trickles through the
+wheels as over jolting stones our pony leads us through the ford, and,
+refreshed by the cool bath, makes a lively sally up the eastern bank.
+For ten miles the Housatonic guides us around its winding curves through
+a path of ever-changing beauty, now shut in by the dense, dark
+evergreens, and again emerging into a bower of silvery beeches, where
+the roadway is carpeted with mottled shadows, and the dappled trunks
+flicker with the softened glints of sunlight. Here we come upon a sandy
+stretch where the road is sunken between two sloping banks thick-set
+with mulleins and sweet-fern, and overrun with creeping brambles. The
+stone-wall above is wreathed in trailing woodbine, and along its crest
+we see the swaying tips of wheat from the edge of the field just beyond;
+and here we pass a border of whortleberry bushes, laden with their
+fruit. Now it is a hazel thicket crowding close upon our wheels, and
+among the leaves we see the brown, tanned husks of the ripening nuts,
+almost ready for that troop of boys and girls that you may be sure are
+watching and waiting for them.</p>
+
+<p>The old gray toll-bridge soon nears to view, with its two long spans and
+fantastic beams. Farther on, peering from its willows, stands the ruined
+cider-mill, with its long moss-grown lever jutting through the trees&mdash;an
+old-time haunt, now crumbling in decay. But we only catch a glimpse of
+it, for in a moment more we are shut in beneath another bower of beeches
+and white birches, where the road takes a steep ascent, and the rippling
+river sends up its sunny reflections among the leaves and tree-trunks.
+When once more upon a level, it is to look ahead through a long avenue
+of shade&mdash;a leafy canopy two miles in length&mdash;with only an occasional
+break to open up some charming bit of landscape across the water. In
+these two miles of umbrage you may see types of almost every tree that
+grows within the boundaries of New England. Old veteran beeches are
+here, their trunks disfigured with scars that once were names cut in the
+bark. Here are spots that look like half obliterated figures; and here
+are spreading hieroglyphs that tell, perhaps, of old-time vows plighted
+at the trysting-tree; and here’s a semblance of a heart, a broken heart
+indeed, if its present form be taken as a prophetic symbol.<a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg074_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg074_sml.jpg" width="312" height="268" alt="ALONG THE HOUSATONIC." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">ALONG THE HOUSATONIC.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>There are magnificent rock-maples too, and silver-maples that shake down
+their little swarms of winged seeds. Tulip-trees and spotted buttonwoods
+grow side by side, and quivering aspens and white poplars are seen at
+every clearing. There are yellow birch-trunks frayed out with the wind,
+and great snake-like stems of grape-vine, that twist and writhe among
+the branches of the trees. There are hop hornbeams, and chestnuts,
+and&mdash;But there is no need to enumerate them all. Just think of every New
+England tree you ever knew, and add a score besides, and you will form a
+slight idea of the varied verdure that hems in this charming Housatonic
+drive, with its rocky roadside embroidered in trickling moss and
+fumitory; and rose-flowered mountain-raspberry growing so close upon the
+road that your pony takes a wayward nip, and plucks its blossomed tip as
+he passes.</p>
+
+<p>Now comes an open level, with wide, expansive views, where every turn
+upon the road brings its fresh surprise, as some new combination of hazy
+mountain landscape towers above the distant river bend; and the flitting
+cloud shadows lead their capricious, undulating chase across the wooded
+slopes. The roadsides here are full of everchanging beauties too, with
+their trimmings of ornamental sunflowers, their picturesque old<a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a> fences,
+and their clumps of purple-berried poke-weed, with here and there a
+yellow patch of toad-flax, and aromatic tufts of tansy hugging close
+against the fence. Even that clambering screen of clematis that trails
+over the shrubbery yonder cannot hide the scattered tips of crimson that
+already have appeared among the sumach leaves.</p>
+
+<p>There are a thousand things one meets upon a country ride or ramble
+which at the time are allowed to pass with but a glance. The eye is
+surfeited and the mind confused with the continual pageantry. But months
+afterward, in the reveries about our winter fires, they all come back to
+us, with the added charm of reminiscence; and whether it be a crystal
+spring among a bank of ferns, or a thistle-top with its fluttering
+butterfly and inevitable bumblebee rolling in the tufted blossom, or a
+squirrel running along a rail, or perhaps a rattling grasshopper
+hovering in mid-air above the dusty road&mdash;no matter what, they all are
+welcome memories at our fireside, and draw our hearts still closer to
+the loveliness of nature.</p>
+
+<p>This Housatonic road is rich in just such pastoral pictures. Two hours
+on such a course soon pass, when our pony whinnies at the welcome sight
+of the old log water-trough beyond&mdash;a landmark old and green when I was
+yet a boy, still nestling in its rocky bed, shadowed by the drooping
+hemlocks, still lavish with its overflowing bounty.</p>
+
+<p>This benefactor by the way-side marks a turning-point in our journey, as
+we leave the grandeur of the Housatonic to pursue our way by the nooks
+and dingles of the wild Shepaug&mdash;a bubbling tributary whose happy waters
+sing of a varied experience. Now placid through the blossoming fields,
+now plunging down the precipice to ripple through a verdant valley,
+where, hemmed in at every turn, it seeks its only liberty beneath the
+rumbling of the old mill-wheels; and at last, ere it loses its identity
+in the swelling tide, leaving a mischievous and tumultuous record as it
+pours through the rocky cañon, and with surging, whirling volume carves
+huge caverns and fantastic statues in its massive bed of stone. Even now
+through the dark forest beyond we can hear the muffled roar, and for
+nearly a league farther as we ascend the long hill it comes to us in
+fitful whispers wafted on the changing breeze. Reaching the summit of
+this incline, we find ourselves on a hill-top wide and far-reaching, on
+right and left losing itself in wooded wold, while in front the level
+road diminishes to a point, surmounted by blue hills in the distance.
+Two miles on a pastoral hill-top, where golden-rod and tall spiræas
+cluster<a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a> along the lichen-covered walls, where orange-lilies gleam among
+the alders, with now and then a blazing group of butterfly-plant or a
+dusty clump of milk-weed. The air is laden with the nut-like odor of the
+everlasting flowers all around us. The buzzing drum of the harvest-fly
+vibrates from every tree, and we hear the tinkling bell and lowing of
+the cattle in some neighboring field. Farther on, we look down from the
+edge of the plateau through the length of Happy Valley, with its winding
+stream, its barns and busy mills, its sunny homes glinting through the
+summer haze. On the left the lofty shadowed cliff known as “Steep-rock”
+towers against the evening sky, and again we catch the murmuring whiffs
+of the rushing stream in its sweeping bend beneath the overhanging
+precipice. A sharp turn round a jutting hill-side, and I meet a prospect
+that quickens the heart and makes the eye grow dim. There beyond, three
+miles “as flies the laden bee,” I linger on the welcome sight, as on its
+hill-top fair two steeples side by side betray the hidden town, my
+second home.</p>
+
+<p>How lightly did I appreciate the fortunate journey when, twenty summers
+ago, I followed this road for the first time, when a boy of ten years,
+on my way to an unknown village, I looked across the landscape to the
+little spires on that distant hill! Little did I dream of the six years
+of unmixed happiness and precious experience that awaited me in that
+little Judea! I only knew that I was sadly quitting a happy home on my
+way to “boarding-school”&mdash;a school called the Snuggery, taught by a Mr.
+Snug, in a little village named Snug Hamlet, about twenty miles from
+Hometown.</p>
+
+<p>There are some experiences in the life of every one which, however
+truthful, cannot be told but to elicit the doubtful nod or the warning
+finger of incredulity. They were such experiences as these, however,
+that made up the sum of my early life in that happy refuge called in
+modern parlance a “boarding-school”&mdash;a name as empty, a word as weak and
+tame in its significance, as poverty itself; no doubt abundantly
+expressive in its ordinary application, but here it is a mockery and a
+satire. This is not a “boarding-school;” it is a <i>household</i>, whose
+memories moisten the eye and stir the soul; to which its scattered
+members through the fleeting years look back as to a neglected home,
+with father and mother dear, whom they long once more to meet as in the
+tenderness of boyhood days; a cherished remembrance which, like the
+“house upon a hill, cannot be hid,” but sends abroad its light unto many
+hearts who in those early days sought the loving shelter; a bright star
+in the horizon of the<a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a> past, a glow that ne’er grows dim, but only
+kindles and brightens with the flood of years. Yes, yes; I know it
+sounds like a dash of sentiment, but words of mine are feeble and
+impotent indeed when sought for the expression of an attachment so fond,
+of a love so deep.</p>
+
+<p>Fifteen years ago, with a parting full of sorrow, I rode away from Snug
+Hamlet yonder in the village stage&mdash;a day that brought a depression that
+lingered long, and lingers still. Glowing, sunset-tinted fields glide by
+unnoticed now, as, with eyes intent on the distant hill, I look back
+through the lapse of time. A mile has gone without my knowing it, when a
+joyous laugh awakens me from my day-dreams. Two boys approach us on the
+road ahead, and, what might seem very strange to you, one wears a wooden
+boot-jack strung around his neck and dangling on his breast; but he
+carries his burden lightly and cheerfully. As they near the carriage I
+draw the rein, and they both pause by the roadside.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, boys,” I ask, “where do <i>you</i> hail from?”</p>
+
+<p>“We’re from the Snuggery, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>“I thought so,” said I, with a laugh, in which they both joined. “But
+what are you doing with that boot-jack?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, you see,” said one, with a roguish smile, “Charlie and I were
+having a little tussle in the sitting-room, and he picked up Mr. Snug’s
+boot-jack in the corner and began to pummel me with it; and jest as we
+were having it the worst, and were rollin’ on the floor, Mr. Snug came
+in and caught us in the job, and now we’re <i>payin’</i> for it.”</p>
+
+<p>“How so?” I inquired, well knowing what would be the response.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, you see, Mr. Snug held a diagnosis over our remains, and said he
+thought we were suffering, for the want of a little exercise, and
+ordered us on a trip to Judd’s Bridge.”</p>
+
+<p>“And the boot-jack?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, he said that Charlie might want to play with that some more on the
+way, and that he’d better fetch it along;” and with a mischievous
+snicker at his encumbered companion, he led him along the road in an
+hilarious race, while we enjoyed a hearty laugh at their expense.</p>
+
+<p>And this a <i>punishment</i>! Yes, here is an introduction to one phase of a
+system of correction as unique as the matchless institution in which it
+had its birth&mdash;a system without a parallel in the annals of chastisement
+or school government, and which for thirty years has proved its wisdom
+in the household management of the Snuggery.</p>
+
+<p>“To Judd’s Bridge!” How natural the sound of those words! How<a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a> many
+times have I myself been on that same pilgrimage of penance! The
+destination of these boys is a rickety but picturesque structure which
+spans the Shepaug five miles below Snug Hamlet. Through three decades it
+looks back to its host of acquaintances of those romping lads who, in
+the superfluity of exuberant spirits, made havoc and din in the
+household. The dose is administered with wise discrimination both as to
+the symptoms and the needs and strength of the patient. It always proves
+a sterling remedy, and sometimes, indeed, a sugar-coated one, as in the
+case of these two ruddy, rollicking examples.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg078_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg078_sml.jpg" width="317" height="286" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p>Judd’s Bridge is but one of a score of places which serve in the
+administration of Snuggery discipline. It is, however, the one most
+remote, and its ten-mile journey is reserved as an heroic dose for
+extraordinary cases, after other prescriptions have been tried without
+avail. Next on the list comes Moody Barn, with “open doors” every day in
+the week to its frequent callers. This old settler, gray and
+weather-beaten, marks a point one mile from the Snuggery, where the
+still waters of the Shepaug run slow and deep&mdash;the favorite
+“swimming-hole” of the Snuggery.<a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg079_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg079_sml.jpg" width="311" height="464" alt="THE HAUNTED MILL." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE HAUNTED MILL.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>And then there’s Kirby Corners, a mere stroll of a few minutes round the
+square of a rock-bound pasture&mdash;just enough to give yourself time to
+think a bit and congratulate yourself on what you have escaped. All
+these, and several more, are vivid in my memory; friends, old and
+intimate. And here’s another, right before us by the roadside. For
+several minutes through the tantalizing trees we have heard its rumbling
+wheel, its reiterating clank, and busy saw; and now, as its familiar
+outline looms up against the evening sky, the vision seems to darken, as
+on that night of long ago, when through<a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a> the shadowy mystery of the
+moonlit gloom I stole my way among the sheltering golden-rod; when the
+lofty flume, like a huge horned creature, seemed to stride athwart me in
+the darkness, and the fitful boyish fancy saw strange phantoms in the
+floating, melting mist. This ancient structure reposes in a verdant dell
+at the foot of Snug Hamlet Hill. A choice of two roads lies before
+us&mdash;one short and direct, the other a roundabout approach. A sudden
+impulse leads me into the latter. On right and left I see the same old
+rocks and trees. There stands the aged beech to whose gnarled and hollow
+trunk I traced the agile flying-squirrel, and with suffocating flame and
+smoke drove him from his hiding-place. Here between large rocks and
+stones the trout-stream runs its course, now pouring in small cataracts,
+now eddying into still, dark nooks, where in those by-gone times I
+dropped the line of expectancy, but showed the clumsiness of adversity.
+A few minutes later, and we are gliding again by the dark Shepaug, now
+flowing calm and silent beneath a rugged bank, wild and umbrageous,
+where the swarm of katydids, with grating discord, maintain their old
+dispute, that never-ending feud. The wheels turn noiselessly in the
+shifting sand as we pursue our way. The low gray fog steals lightly over
+the lily-pads, floating into seclusion beneath the sheltering boughs,
+or, like an evanescent spirit, borne upon the evening breath, is lifted
+from the gloom, and slowly melts into the twilight sky. The solitary
+whippoorwill from his mysterious haunt, perhaps in yonder tree, perhaps
+in the mountain loneliness beyond, proclaims with dismal cry his
+oft-repeated wail. And as we ascend the darkening path, through the
+still night air, in measured cadence long and sad, we hear the toll of
+the distant knell. Threescore-and-ten its numbers tell of the earthly
+years&mdash;a curfew requiem for the dead. Even as we pass the little chapel
+at the summit of the hill, and the bell has scarcely ceased its
+melancholy tidings, we hear the shouts and merry laughs of the boys on
+the village green. Presently its broad expanse, shut in by twinkling
+windows and massive trees, spreads out before us, as a clear and ringing
+voice, like that of old, echoes through the growing darkness, “One
+hundred! Nothing said, coming ahead!” and a dim figure steals cautiously
+from the steps of the old white church to seek in the sequestered
+hiding-places. With a heart that fairly thumps, I urge my pony onward
+across the green, and ere he slackens his pace I am at my journey’s end.
+The dear old Snuggery, with its gables manifold and quaint, its
+fantastic wings and towers, stands there before me, the glowing windows
+beaming<a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a> through the maples. Leaving our pony in willing hands, we enter
+the gate, and are soon upon the wide porch.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg081_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg081_sml.jpg" width="296" height="398" alt="PURSUERS AND PURSUED." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">PURSUERS AND PURSUED.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>It is eight o’clock, and the Snuggery is hushed in the quiet of the
+study hour, and as we look through the windows we see the little groups
+of studious lads bending over their books. Turning a corner on the
+piazza, we are confronted with a tall hexagonal structure at its farther
+end. This is the Tower, the lower room of which is consecrated to the
+cosy retirement of Mr. and Mrs. Snug. The door leading to the porch is
+open, and, as if awakening from a nap in which the past fifteen years
+have been a dream, I listen to the same dear voice. I approach nearer.
+Under the glow of a student’s lamp I look upon the beloved face, the
+flowing hair and beard now silvered with the lapse of years&mdash;a face of
+unusual firmness, but whose every line marks the expression of a tender,
+loving nature, and of a large and noble heart. Near<a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a> him another sits&mdash;a
+helpmeet kind and true, cherished companion in a happy, useful life.
+Into her lap a nestling lad has climbed; and as she strokes the curly
+head and looks into the chubby face, I see the same expression as of
+old, the same motherly tenderness and love beaming from the large gray
+eyes.</p>
+
+<p>Mr. Snug is leaning back in his easy-chair, and two boys are standing up
+before him; one of them is speaking, evidently in answer to a question.</p>
+
+<p>“I called him a galoot, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>“You called George a galoot, and then he threw the base-ball club at
+you&mdash;is that it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir,” interrupted George; “but I was only playing, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” resumed the voice of Mr. Snug, “but that club went with
+considerable force, and landed over the fence, and made havoc in Deacon
+Farish’s onion-bed; and that reminds me that the deacon’s onion-bed is
+overrun with weeds. Now, Willie,” continued Mr. Snug, after a moment’s
+hesitation, with eyes closed, and head thrown back against the chair,
+“Saturday morning&mdash;to-morrow, that is&mdash;directly after breakfast, you go
+out into the grove and call names to the big rock for half an hour.
+Don’t stop to take breath; and don’t call the same name twice. Your
+vocabulary will easily stand the drain. You understand?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>“And, George,” continued Mr. Snug, with deliberate, easy intonation,
+“to-morrow morning, at the same time, you present yourself politely to
+Deacon Farish, tell him that I sent you, and ask him to escort you to
+his onion-bed. After which you will go carefully to work and pull out
+all the weeds. You understand, sir?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>“And then you will both report to me as usual.” And with a pleasant
+smile, which was reflected in both their faces, the erring youngsters
+were dismissed. Before the door has closed behind them we are standing
+in the door-way. Here I draw the curtain; for who but one of its own
+household could understand a welcome at the Snuggery?</p>
+
+<p>Those of my old school-mates who read this meagre sketch will know the
+happiness of such a meeting; but others less fortunate in the
+recollections of school-life can only look for its counterpart in an
+affectionate welcome in their own homes, for the Snuggery <i>is</i> a home to
+all who ever dwelt within its gates. Seated in the familiar cosiness,
+and surrounded<a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a> by the friends of my school-days, the hours fly fast and
+pleasantly. There is plenty to talk about. Here is a village full of
+good people of whom I wish to learn, and there are many far-off chums of
+whom I carry tidings. A bell rings in the cupola as one by one, from the
+buzz in the outer rooms, boys large and small seek our seclusion for the
+accustomed good-night adieu; and ere another hour has passed forty
+sleepy urchins are packed away in their snug quarters. The evening runs
+on into midnight, as with stories of the past, its pains and penalties,
+its remembrances, now humorous now sad by turns, we recall the good old
+times; and the “wee sma’ hours” are already upon us as we reluctantly
+retire from the goodly company to our rooms across the way.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 213px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg083_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg083_sml.jpg" width="213" height="371" alt="TOLLING FOR THE DEAD." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">TOLLING FOR THE DEAD.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The next morning finds us in the midst of a merry load, with Mr. Snug as
+a driver; and many and varied were the beauties that opened up before us
+on that charming ride! Snug Hamlet, once called Judea, in the qualities
+of its landscape as well as in everything else, is unique. Stripped of
+all its old associations, it presents to the artistic eye a combination
+of attractions scarcely to be equalled in the boundaries of New England.
+Situated itself on the brow of an abrupt hill, where its picturesque
+homes cluster about a broad open green, a few minutes’ drive in any
+direction reveals a surrounding panorama of the rarest loveliness. Five
+hundred feet below us, winding in and out, now beneath leafy tangles,
+now under quaint little bridges, and again reposing placidly in broad
+mill-ponds, the happy Shepaug lends<a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a> to a lovely valley its usefulness
+and beauty. Turning in another direction, we pass the Snuggery
+ball-ground, animated with the shouts of victory; and descending into a
+vale of almost primeval wildness, we continue our way up the ascent of
+“Artist’s Hill,” from whose summit on every side, as far as the eye can
+reach, the landscape softens into the hazy horizon. Returning, we pass
+through a ruined waste, where, three months before, the fierce tornado
+swooped down in its fiendish fury. On every side we see its awful
+evidences. Huge oaks, like brittle pipe-stems, snapped from their
+moorings; sturdy hickories, mere play-things in the gale, twisted into
+shreds.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 315px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg084_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg084_sml.jpg" width="315" height="321" alt="WRECKS OF THE TORNADO." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">WRECKS OF THE TORNADO.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Every morning saw me on some new drive, either with a wagon full of
+merry company, or as alone with Mr. Snug we held our quiet <i>tête-à-tête</i>
+on wheels, living over the olden times. In the afternoon I strolled by
+myself through the old and eloquent scenes. A volume could not hold the
+memories they revived&mdash;no, not even those of yonder barn alone. Even as
+I sit making my pencil-sketch, its reminiscences seem to float across
+the vision. Distinctly it recalls the events of one evening years ago.
+It was at about the sunset hour one Friday. I was quietly sitting on a
+lounge in the parlor talking to Cuthbert Harding, who was standing in
+front of me. Presently the door opens, and the tall figure of Dick<a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a> Shin
+enters. Dick and I were antipodes in every sense of the word. Physically
+we were as a match and a billiard ball, he being the lucifer. He was
+also my <i>bête noire</i>, and he never missed an opportunity to vent his
+spite. Accordingly he stalked toward us, and with a violent push sent
+Cuthbert pell-mell on to me. In falling, he stepped heavily on my foot,
+and hurt me severely, which accounted for my excited expression as I
+threw him from me.</p>
+
+<p>Of course Mr. Snug had to come in just at this time, and seeing us in
+what looked to him very like a fight, he took us firmly by the ears and
+stood us side by side, while I ventured to explain.</p>
+
+<p>“Not a word!” exclaimed he, in a tone there was no mistaking. “You two
+boys may cool off on a trip to Moody Barn, after which you will report
+to me in the Tower. Now go.”</p>
+
+<p>Whatever may have been the state of my mind a few moments before, I was
+now mad in earnest, and with every bit of my latent obstinacy aroused, I
+sauntered out on to the porch.</p>
+
+<p>“Cool off, old boy,” whispered a grating voice at my side, as I turned
+and met the gaze of Dick Shin, motioning with his thumb in the direction
+of Moody Barn&mdash;“cool off; you need it;” and his ample mouth stretched
+into a sneering grin.</p>
+
+<p>I had already formed an intention, but now it was a resolve.</p>
+
+<p>“Cuthbert,” said I to my quiet and less choleric companion, when some
+distance down the road, “I am not going on that trip.”</p>
+
+<p>“Not going!” replied he, with surprise; “why, you’ll <i>have</i> to go.”</p>
+
+<p>“But I <i>won’t</i> go, and that settles it. It’s confounded unjust that
+we’re sent, anyhow, and I don’t propose to stand it.”</p>
+
+<p>“I think so too,” answered Cuthbert, with hesitating emphasis; “but
+what’ll we do? We’ll have to report to Mr. Snug, you know; that’s the
+<i>worst</i> of it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, I’ll be spokesman, and I’ll <i>lie</i> before I’ll go on that trip.”</p>
+
+<p>I was boiling over with righteous wrath, but Cuthbert never was known to
+boil; he only simmered a little, but readily seconded my plan. We
+stopped at Kirby Corners, and there, secluded from view in the bushes,
+we spent the interval. Cuthbert had a watch, and by the light of the
+rising moon we were enabled to fix the full period for the trip. One
+hour and a half we allowed&mdash;an abundant limit. During this time I had
+completely “cooled off,” and had schooled myself to that point where I
+could tell a lie with a smooth face and a clear conscience.<a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>
+Accordingly, when the time came, we appeared at the door of the Tower.
+Mr. Snug was sitting in his accustomed place, and we entered and stood
+before him.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg086_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg086_sml.jpg" width="314" height="387" alt="PASSING THOUGHTS." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">PASSING THOUGHTS.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>“Well, sir,” said he, with a polite bow of the head, dropping his paper
+and looking up at us.</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Snug, we have come to report,” said I, fearlessly. “We have been to
+Moody Barn.”</p>
+
+<p>Instantly Mr. Snug straightened himself up in his chair, pushed back<a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>
+the gray locks from his high forehead, and, with an expression that I
+never shall forget, glared at me from under the frowning eyebrows.</p>
+
+<p>“<i>You lie, sir!</i>” he exclaimed, in thundering tones that fairly made my
+hair stand on end, while Cuthbert trembled from head to foot; then
+followed a brief moment of consternation that seemed an age. “Now go!”
+continued he, as with an emphatic nod of the head he motioned toward the
+door. Sheepish and crest-fallen, we slunk away from the room. It is
+needless to say that we went this time. Through the darkness, by the aid
+of a lantern, we picked our way, as with theories numerous and ingenious
+we strove to account for that vociferous reception.</p>
+
+<p>Late that night we held an experience meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Snug in
+the Tower, and if I remember right there were a few tears that fell, and
+many apologies and good resolves, and as the true state of the case
+dawned on Mr. Snug there was an evident twinge of regret on his kind
+face.</p>
+
+<p>On the following morning (Saturday) there was a jolly party of youths
+leaving the Snuggery for a day’s boating at the lake. Dick Shin was
+among them; and just as he was passing out the gate, a youngster
+approaches him and taps him on the shoulder. “You are hereby arrested,
+sir, on the orders of Mr. Snug.”</p>
+
+<p>With an anxious and innocent expression Dick follows his juvenile
+constable into the Tower, and his companions stroll along after to
+ascertain the cause of the detention. We pass over the brief but amusing
+trial, in which the prisoner, with the innocence of a little lamb,
+pleaded his cause.</p>
+
+<p>“You <i>stumbled</i>, did you?” said Mr. Snug. “Well, you ought to know, sir,
+by this time that I don’t allow young men to stumble in that way in my
+house. These two boys have suffered through your admitted clumsiness.”
+Here Mr. Snug paused in a moment’s thought. “Dick Shin,” he continued,
+“I sent these innocent young gentlemen on two trips to Moody Barn&mdash;that
+makes four miles for Bigson and four miles for Harding, together making
+eight that they walked on your account. Now you may put down your
+fishing-pole, and ‘stumble’ along on the road to Judd’s Bridge, which
+will give you two extra miles in which to think over your sins. And to
+make sure”&mdash;here Mr. Snug arose and went to the closet&mdash;“you may take
+this hatchet along with you, and bring me back a good big chip from the
+end of the long bridge beam. I shall ride over that way to-morrow and
+see whether it fits. You understand?<a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir,” replied the injured voice of Dick Shin. “But, Mr. Snug,
+can’t I put off that penance until Monday?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, sir,” replied Mr. Snug, with a beaming smile and a bow of the head.
+“This is a lovely morning for contrite meditation. Go&mdash;<i>instantly</i>.”</p>
+
+<p>Two hours later saw a demonstrative individual threatening to chop down
+the whole side of a bridge, while ten miles to the northward the placid
+surface of Waramaug rippled to the oars, and the lofty mountain-sides
+echoed with the shouts of a merry holiday.</p>
+
+<p>&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>But all things must have an end. The school-days ended, and so did this
+memorable vacation. A letter breaks the charm: insatiate publisher! Once
+more through the winding paths of the Housatonic, and I leave the
+loveliness of Hometown for the metropolis of brick and stone, there to
+resume the old routine.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg088_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg088_sml.jpg" width="112" height="70" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a></p>
+
+<p><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg090_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg090_sml.jpg" width="109" height="98" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a></p>
+
+<h2><a name="AUTUMN" id="AUTUMN"></a>A<small>UTUMN</small>.</h2>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg091_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg091_sml.jpg" width="357" height="510" alt="THE WANING" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a></p>
+
+<p><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg093_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg093_sml.jpg" width="340" height="536" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span> AM sitting alone upon a wooded knoll at our old farm at Hometown.
+Above me a venerable oak holds aloft its dome of bronze-green verdure,
+and on<a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a> either side the gnarled and knotty branches bend low, and trail
+their rustling leaves among the tufts of waving grass that fringe the
+slope around me.</p>
+
+<p>It is a spot endeared to me from earliest memory, a loved retreat whose
+every glimpse beneath the overhanging boughs has left its impress, whose
+every feature of undulating field, of wooded mountain, and winding
+meadow-brook I have long been able to summon up at will before my closed
+eyes, as though a mirror of the living picture now before me. And what
+is this picture?</p>
+
+<p>It is an enchanted vision of nature’s autumn loveliness&mdash;a vision of
+peace and tranquil resignation that lingers like a poem in the memory.
+It is a glorious October day, one of those rarest and loveliest of days
+when all nature seems transfigured, when a golden, misty veil swings
+from the heavens in a charmed haze, through which the commonest and most
+prosaic thing seems spiritualized and glorified. The summer’s full
+fruition is past and gone, the dross has been consumed; and in the
+lingering life, whose yielding flush now lends its sweet expression to
+the declining year, we see the type of perfect trust and hope that finds
+a fitting emblem in the dim horizon, where heaven and earth are wedded
+in a golden haze, where purple hills melt softly in the sky. It is a day
+when one may dream with open eyes, and whose day-dreams haunt the memory
+as sweet realities. The sky is filled with rolling, fleecy clouds, whose
+flat receding bases seem to float upon a transparent amber sea, from
+whose depths I look through into the blue air beyond.</p>
+
+<p>Below me an ancient orchard skirts the borders of the knoll. Its boughs
+are crimson studded, and the ground beneath is strewn with the bright
+red fruit. They mark the minutes as they fall, running the gauntlet of
+the craggy twigs and bounding upon the slope beneath. Beyond the orchard
+stretch the low, flat meadow lands, set with alders and swamp-maples,
+with swaying willows, now enclosing, now revealing the graceful curves
+of the quiet stream as it winds in and out among the overhanging
+foliage. Soon it is lost beneath a wooded hill, where an old square
+tower and factory-bell betray the hiding-place of the glassy pond that
+sends its splashing water-fall across the rocks beneath the old town
+bridge. Looking down upon this bridge, Mount Pisgah, with its rugged
+cliff, is seen rising bold and stern against the sky, above a broad and
+bright mosaic of elms and maples, spreading from the grove of oaks near
+by in an unbroken expanse, to the very foot of the precipice, with here
+and there a<a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a> sunny cupola or gable peering out among the branches, or a
+snowy steeple lifting high its golden cross or weather-vane glittering
+in the sun. The mountain-side is lit up with its autumn glow of
+intermingled maples, oaks, and beeches, with its changeless ledges of
+jutting rock, and dense, defiant pines standing like veteran bearded
+sentinels in perpetual vigilance.</p>
+
+<p>All this comes to me in a single glimpse beneath the branches. But there
+are others, where undulating meadows, with their flowing lines of walls
+and fences, lead the eye through soft gradations to distant purple
+hills, through thrifty farms, with barns and barracks and rowen fields
+with browsing cattle, and ruddy buckwheat patches, where the flocks of
+village pigeons congregate among the cradle marks, in quest of scattered
+kernels shaken from the sheaves.</p>
+
+<p>There is a tiny lake near by that nestles among the hill-side farms,
+where sloping pastures and fields of yellow, rustling corn glide almost
+to the water’s edge. So sensitive and sympathetic is this little sheet
+of water that I christened it one day Chameleon Lake, for it wears a
+different expression for every phase of season or freak of weather, and
+always dwells in harmony with the landscape which encloses it. In cloudy
+days it frowns as cold as steel. In days of sunshine it is as bright and
+blue as the sky itself, or shimmers like a shield of burnished silver.
+And now it is a flood of autumn gold, carrying from shore to shore a
+maze of ripples laden with opaline reflections of intermingled glints
+from cloud and sky, and of the gold and ruby colored foliage along its
+banks.</p>
+
+<p>But this knoll and all these farms are not mine alone. They are such as
+I should hope might lurk in the memory of almost any one who looks back
+to early days among New England hills.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg096_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg096_sml.jpg" width="339" height="410" alt="AN OCTOBER DAY." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">AN OCTOBER DAY.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>This old oak-tree, whose furrowed bark I lean upon, was a hardy
+patriarch when first I sought its shade. Its added years have scarcely
+changed a feature or modified a line in its old-time noble expression.
+As I look up, its great open arms spread out against the sky exactly as
+they did when I lolled beneath their shelter and watched the drifting
+clouds of twenty years ago sail through them in the blue above. Even the
+jagged furrows in the bark I seem to recognize. Here, too, is that same
+spreading scale of greenish lichen that fain will grow upon the trunk,
+as if I had not often picked it all to pieces in my early idling. The
+same round oak-gall rests on the bed of leaves in the hollow between the
+rocks near by, as though it had forgotten how a dozen years ago I
+cracked its polished shell and sent its spongy contents to the winds.<a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a></p>
+
+<p>And here comes that veritable ant creeping through the grass at my
+elbow&mdash;now on the root, now on the bark, exploring every crack and
+crevice in his hurried search. I wonder if the little fellow will ever
+find what he has been looking for so long. And here’s a friend of his
+coming down. They stop and wag their antennæ in a moment’s conversation.
+I wonder what they said. I always <i>did</i> wonder when I watched them do
+the same thing on this very spot a score of years ago. The soft waving
+grass whispers about my ears as it did then, and I hear the low trumpet
+of the nuthatch as he creeps about in the tree o’erhead. Easily may one
+forget the lapse of time in such a place as this, where every leaf, and
+twig, and blade of grass conspire to breed forgetfulness of later years.
+Hark! that shrill tattoo again! The tree-toad. Yes, that same recluse in
+his mysterious hiding-place, seeking by his tantalizing trill to renew
+that game of hide-and-seek we left off so long ago&mdash;in those eager days
+when every stick and stone upon the knoll was overturned in my zeal to
+find his whereabouts. There he goes again! louder and more shrill. But
+now I realize the effect of time, for I only sit and listen to his
+oft-repeated call. Formerly that sound was like a galvanic thrill that
+electrified every nerve and muscle in my physiology. No, I’ll not hunt
+for you again, my musical young friend; besides, the odds would be
+against you now, for I know more about tree-toads<a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a> than I once did, and
+you wouldn’t see me hunting on the ground as in the olden days. Besides,
+you’re getting bold; there is no need of hunting, for in that last toot
+you gave yourself away. Even now my eyes are fixed upon the hole in
+yonder hollow limb, and I see your tiny form clinging to the rotten wood
+within the opening. What <i>would</i> I not have given <i>once</i> to have thought
+of that soggy hole!</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 342px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg097_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg097_sml.jpg" width="342" height="420" alt="A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Near by a spreading yew monopolizes a rocky bit of ground, its foliage
+creeping above a silvery gray bed of branching moss, whose pillowy tufts
+spread almost to my feet. This was my fairy forest of tiny trees. Here I
+found the fairies’ cups and torches, and even now I can see their
+scarlet tips scattered here and there among the gray; and fragile little
+parasols, too&mdash;it were an insult, indeed, to designate such dainty
+things as these by the name of toadstools. Beyond this bed of moss a
+scrubby growth of whortleberry takes possession of the ground. The
+bushes are now bare of fruit, but ruddy with their autumn blushes,
+tingeing the surface of the knoll with a delicate coral pink. This
+thicket extends far down upon the slope, even encroaching upon the
+wheel-ruts of the lane, and across again, until<a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a> cut short by an ancient
+tumbling line of lichen-covered stones, a landmark which has long since
+yielded up its claim as a barrier of protection to the old orchard it
+encloses, now only a moss-grown pile, with every chink and crevice a
+nestling-place of some searching tendril, fern, or clambering vine. For
+rods and rods it creeps along beneath the laden apple-trees, skirting
+the borders of this old farm lane, and finally hides away among a clump
+of cedars a few hundred feet away.</p>
+
+<p>Of all the picturesque in nature, what is there, after all, that so wins
+one’s deeper sympathies as the ever-changing pictures of a rustic lane
+or roadside, with its weather-beaten walls and fences, and their
+rambling growth of weeds and creeping vines? How sweet the sense of near
+companionship awakened by these charming way-side pastorals that
+accompany you in your saunterings, and reach out to touch you as you
+pass&mdash;a sense of friendly fellowship that breathes a silent greeting in
+the most deserted paths or loneliest of by-ways!</p>
+
+<p>Show me a ruined wall or a rutted zigzag fence, and I will show you a
+string of pearls, or rather, if in these later months, a fringe of gems,
+for the autumn fence is set in wreaths of rubies and glowing sapphires.
+Follow its rambling course, now through the field, now skirting swampy
+fallows, now by rustic lanes and cornfields and over rocky pastures, and
+you will follow a lead that will take you through the rarest bits of
+nature’s autumn landscape.</p>
+
+<p>Even in this lane, at the foot of the knoll below us, see the brilliant
+luxuriance of clustered bitter-sweet draping the side of that clump of
+cedars! It is only an indication of the beauty that envelops this lane
+for a full half mile beyond. Every angle of its rude rail fence encloses
+a lovely pastoral, each a surprise and a contrast to its neighbor.</p>
+
+<p>Right here before us, what a beginning! Hold up your hands on either
+side, and shut out the surroundings. Such is the glimpse I always long
+to paint from nature, and yet how almost maddening is the result! Rather
+would I drink it all in and fix its every feature in my mind, and paint
+it from its memory, when the presence of the living thing before me
+shall not mock my efforts and put to shame the crude creations of oil
+and pigment.</p>
+
+<p>See how the cool gray rails are relieved against that rich dark
+background of dense olive juniper, how they hide among the prickly
+foliage! Look at that low-hanging branch which so exquisitely conceals
+the lowest rail as it emerges from its other side, and spreads out among
+the creeping<a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a> briers that wreathe the ground with their shining leaves
+of crimson and deep bronze! Could any art more daringly concentrate a
+rhapsody of color than nature has here done in bringing up that gorgeous
+spray of scarlet sumach, whose fern-like pinnate leaves are so richly
+massed against that background of dark evergreens? And even in that
+single branch see the wondrous gradation of color, from purest green to
+purplish olive, and olive melting into crimson, and then to scarlet, and
+through orange into yellow, and all sustaining in its midst the
+clustered cone of berries of rich maroon! Verily, it were almost an
+affront to sit down before such a shrine and attempt to match it in
+material pigment. A passing sketch, perhaps, that shall serve to aid the
+memory in the retirement of the studio, but a careful copy, <i>never!</i>
+until we can have a tenfold lease of life, and paint with sunbeams. But
+there is more still in this tantalizing ideal, for a luxuriant wild
+grape-vine, that shuts in the fence near by, sends toward us an
+adventurous branch that climbs the upright rail, and festoons itself
+from fence to tree, and hangs its luminous canopy over the crest of the
+yielding juniper. Even from where we stand we can see the pendant
+clusters of tiny grapes clearly shadowed against the translucent golden
+screen. Add to all this the charm of life and motion, with trembling
+leaves and branches bending in the breeze, with here and there a
+flitting shadow playing across the half hidden rails, and where can you
+find another such picture, its counterpart in beauty&mdash;where? perhaps its
+very neighbor, for all roadside pictures are “hung upon the line,” they
+are all by the same great Master, and it is often difficult to choose.</p>
+
+<p>Here we have a contrast. A dappled rock has taken possession of this
+little corner, or the corner has been built around it, if you choose&mdash;a
+“gray” rock we would call it in common parlance, but it is a gray
+composed of a checkered multitude of tints, colors which upon a rock, it
+would seem, were hardly worth an appreciative glance; but only let them
+be exhibited upon a fold of Lyons silk or Jouvin kid glove, and dignify
+them by the compliments of “ashes of roses,” or “London smoke,” and how
+eagerly they are sought, how exquisite they become. I speak in
+moderation when I say that I have often sat and counted as many as
+thirty just such tints upon the surface of a small “gray” rock, each
+<i>distinct</i>, and all so <i>refined</i> and exquisite in shade. This rounded
+bowlder is no exception; and with its tufted spots of jetty moss, and
+outcroppings of glistening quartz, its rounded, spreading blots of
+greenish lichens, and mottled groundwork, it may well defy the craft of
+the most skilled palette.<a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a> And when these grays are contrasted with
+tender yellow greens and browns of fading ferns, such as fringe the
+borders of the one before me, with a background of scarlet whortleberry
+bushes and deep-green sprays of blackberry clustering about the
+loosening bark of a crumbling stump, with its shelving growth of fungus
+hiding among its brown debris, one may well pause and wonder which to
+choose, or where a single touch is wanting in the perfect unity and
+harmony of either.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 333px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg100_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg100_sml.jpg" width="333" height="512" alt="WAIFS." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">WAIFS.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>Another jutting corner, and we confront a swaying mass of gold and
+purple&mdash;that magnificent regal combination of graceful golden-rod and
+asters that glorifies our autumn from September to the falling leaf.
+There are a number of species of golden-rod, varying as much in their
+intensity of color as in their time of bloom. The earliest appear in the
+heart of summer, in wood and meadow; while others, larger and more
+stately, lift up in their midst their plumy, undeveloped tips, and wait
+until their predecessors are old and gray ere they roll out their
+wreaths of gold. For weeks the roads and by-ways have been lit up with
+their brilliant glow, that parting sunset gleam that lingers with the
+closing year. This splendid cluster is full six feet in height, and
+towers above the highest rail, or rather where the rail ought to be, for
+it is lost from sight beneath a dense fret-work of prickly smilax&mdash;<a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>and
+such brilliant, polished leaves! how they glitter in the sun! almost as
+though wet with dew.</p>
+
+<p>And to think how those prickly canes, denuded of their leaves, are sold
+upon our city thoroughfares as “Spanish rose-trees” to the unsuspecting
+passer-by! Those guileless venders, too! I remember one that sought to
+enrich my store of botanical knowledge by telling me they “bloomed in
+winter!” and had a flower as “big as a saucer,” and “kinder like a holy
+hawk!!!?” I looked him straight in the eye, but he was the picture of
+innocence. “Can you tell me the botanical name,” I asked. “Oh yes,” he
+glibly replied, “I think they call it the <i>Rubus epistaxis</i>.” Eheu! but
+this was <i>too much</i>, and he saw it, and with a wink of his foxy eye and
+a shrewd grin, he whispered along the palm of his hand, “Got to git a
+livin’ <i>somehow</i>, boss; now <i>don’t</i> give me away.” “Here you are, lady,
+Spanish roses, lady, fresh from the steamer.” I never see a thicket of
+green-brier without thinking of its “winter blossom;” and, by-the-way,
+did you ever notice a thicket of this shrub, what a defiant, arbitrary
+tyrant it is&mdash;shutting out the very life-breath and light of day from
+its encumbered victims, monopolizing everything within its power, and
+even reaching out for more with searching tips in mid-air, and a couple
+of greedy tendrils at every leaf? And did you ever notice along the road
+that delicious whiff that comes to you every now and then, that pungent
+breath of the sweet-fern? We get it now; the air is laden with it from
+the dark-green beds across the road. The sweet-fern, as I remember it,
+was the simpler’s panacea and the small boy’s joy&mdash;an aromatic shrub,
+whose inhaled fumes, together with its corn-silk rival, seem destined by
+an all-wise Providence as a preparatory tonic to the more ambitious
+fumigation of after-years. Many a time have I sat upon this bank and
+tried to imagine in my domestic product the racy flavor of the famed
+Havana!</p>
+
+<p>Between old Aunt Huldy, with her mania for the simples, and the demand
+of the village boys, I wonder there is any of it left. But Aunt Huldy
+has long since died; all her “yarbs,” and “yarrer tea,” and “paowerful
+gud stimmilants” could not give her the lease of eternal earthly life
+which she said lurked in the “everlastin’ flaowers;” and after she had
+reached the age of one hundred and three, her tansy decoctions and
+boneset potions ceased in their efficacy&mdash;the feeble pulse grew feebler,
+and one winter’s eve, sitting in her rocker by her kettle and andirons,
+she fell into a deep sleep, from which she never awoke. Aunt Huldy was
+as strange and eccentric a character as one rarely meets in the walks of
+life. Some<a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a> said she was crazy; others said she was a witch; but
+whatever she may have been, this aged dame was picturesque with her bent
+figure, her long white hair and scarlet hood. And who shall describe the
+ancient withered face that looked out from the shadow of that hood, the
+small gray eyes and heavy white eyebrows, the toothless jaws and
+receding lips, and massive chin that made its appalling ascent across
+the face? But I cannot describe that face: think of how a witch should
+look, and old Huldy’s features will rise up before you. She knew every
+herb that grew, but her great stand-by was “sweet-fern:” she smoked it,
+she chewed it, she drank it, and even wore a little bag of it around her
+neck, “to charm away the rheumatiz.”</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg102_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg102_sml.jpg" width="338" height="402" alt="IN THE CORNFIELD." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">IN THE CORNFIELD.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Since her time, however, the sweet-fern has had a chance to recuperate,
+and, as far as we can see along the road, the banks are covered with it;
+and there’s a clump of teazles in its midst! I wonder if that old
+carding-mill still stands. You also, perhaps, will wonder what relation
+can exist<a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a> between the two, that should make my thoughts jump half a
+mile at the sight of a roadside weed. But that old woollen-mill offered
+a premium on the extermination of one weed at least, for all the teasels
+of the neighborhood were required to keep its cloth brushes in thorough
+repair; but I fear its buzzing wheels are silent, for in olden times no
+such splendid clump as this could have remained to go to seed upon the
+highway. This old mill lies right upon our path, only a short walk down
+the road beyond. It nestles among a bower of willows in a picturesque
+ravine known as the “Devil’s Hollow”&mdash;an umbrageous, rocky glen, by far
+too cool and comfortable a place to justify the name it bears.</p>
+
+<p>Following the road, we now descend into a long, low stretch, hedged in
+between two tall banks of alder, overtopped with interwoven tangles of
+clematis, with its cloudy autumn clusters&mdash;that graceful vine which,
+like the dandelion, is even more beautiful in death than in the fulness
+of its bloom. And so, indeed, are nearly all those plants whose final
+state is thus endowed by nature with feathery wings to lift them from
+the earth.</p>
+
+<p>When has this swamp milk-weed by the roadside looked so fair as now,
+with its bursting pods and silky seeds&mdash;those little waifs thrown out
+upon the world with every passing breeze. How tenderly they seem to
+cling to the little cosy home where they have been so snugly cradled and
+protected; and see how they sail away, two or three together, loth to
+part, until some rude gust shall separate them forever.</p>
+
+<p>And here’s the great spiny thistle, too, that armed highwayman with
+florid face and pompon in his cap. But he has had his day, and now we
+see him old and seedy; his spears are broken, and his silvery gray hairs
+are floating everywhere and glistening in the sun.</p>
+
+<p>Now we leave the alders, and another roadside mosaic of rich color opens
+up before us, where the old half-wall fence, with its overtopping rails,
+is luminous with a crimson glow of ampelopsis. It covers all the stones
+for yards and yards; it swings from every jutting rail; it clambers up
+the tree trunks and envelops them in fire, and hangs its waving fringe
+from all the branches.</p>
+
+<p>Above the wall, like an encampment of thatched wigwams, the corn-shocks
+lift their heads; a prospecting colony encamped among a field rich with
+outcroppings of gold&mdash;a wealth of great round nuggets all in sight. And
+were we to tear away that thatch, we might see where they have stowed
+away their accumulated grains of wealth. We hear their rustling
+whispers: “Hush! hush!” they seem to say to each other as we<a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a> approach;
+but their wariness is gratuitous, for a tell-tale vine is creeping away
+upon the fence near-by, and has stopped to rest its golden burden on the
+summit of the wall, half hiding among the scarlet creepers.</p>
+
+<p>Here yellow brakes abound, spreading their broad, triangular fronds on
+every side amid the brilliant berries of wild-rose, and pink leaves of
+blueberry. And here are thickets of black-alder, where every twig is
+studded with scarlet beads, that cling so close that even winter’s
+bluster cannot shake them off. No matter where we look in these October
+days, nature is burning itself away in a blaze of color that dazzles the
+eyes; and now we approach its very crowning touch.</p>
+
+<p>I wish every one might see this gorgeous combination of oak and maples;
+see it and go no farther, for a further search were fruitless in finding
+its equal. It is the pride of the entire community; towns-people and
+visitors ride from miles around to see its final flush&mdash;a magnificent
+climax in the way of concentration of vivid color, in which nature seems
+to have grouped with distinct purpose and design, producing a piece of
+natural landscape-gardening such as no art could have approached. The
+background is a massive precipice of rock towering to the height of
+eighty feet, itself a perfect medley of tone.</p>
+
+<p>The group is composed of eight maples, each a distinct contrast of pure
+color. In their midst a superb large oak presents one massive breadth of
+deep purple green; and spreading up one side like a flood of yellow
+light, a rock-maple lifts its splendid array of foliage. These two trees
+concentrate the effect, and the others are arranged around them like
+colors on a palette: one is a flaming scarlet, another beside it is
+always a rich green, even to the falling leaf&mdash;with only a single
+branch, that every year, even as early as August, persists in turning to
+a peculiar salmon pink; another, a red-maple, is so deep a red as to
+appear almost maroon, and its branches intermingle with the pale-pink
+verdure of another growing by its side. There is one that combines every
+intermediate color, from deep crimson to the palest saffron; while its
+neighbor flutters in the wind with every leaf a brilliant butterfly of
+pure green, with spots and splashes of deep carmine.</p>
+
+<p>This whole assemblage of color fairly blazes in the landscape, and even
+from the top of Mount Pisgah, a half a mile away, it looks like a
+glowing coal dropped down upon a bed of smouldering ashes in the valley;
+for the surrounding meadow is thick-set with great gray rocks and
+crimson viburnum, as though it had caught fire from the flaming<a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a> trees.
+What other country can boast the glory of a tree which, taken all in
+all, can hold its own beside our lovely maple? From the time when first
+it hangs its silken tassels to the awakening spring breeze until its
+autumn fire has burned away its leaves, it presents an everchanging
+phase that lends a distinct expression to American landscape. It affords
+us grateful shade in summer; and with its trickling bounty in the spring
+we can all unite in a hearty toast, “A health to the glorious maple.”</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg105_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg105_sml.jpg" width="337" height="218" alt="THE ROAD TO THE MILL." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE ROAD TO THE MILL.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>But there is another tree which should not be forgotten, and if once
+seen in a New England autumn landscape there is little danger of its
+escaping from the memory. Of course, I refer to the pepperidge, or
+tupelo, that nondescript among trees; for who ever saw two
+pepperidge-trees alike? They seem to scorn a reputation for symmetry, or
+even the idea of establishing among themselves the recognition of a type
+of character. Novelty or grotesqueness is their only aim, and they hit
+the bull’s-eye every time. There is one I have in mind that has always
+been a perfect curiosity. Its height is fully seventy feet, and its
+crown is as flat as though cut off with a mammoth pair of
+pruning-shears. The central trunk runs straight up to the summit, from
+which it squirms off into six or seven snake-like branches, that dip
+downward and writhe among the other limbs, all falling in the same
+direction. One gets the impression,<a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a> on looking at it, that originally
+it might have been a respectable-looking tree, but that in some rude
+storm in its early days it had been struck by lightning, torn up by the
+roots, and afterward had taken root at the top. The tupelo, whenever
+seen, is always one of our most picturesque trees, and a never-failing
+source of surprise, twisting and turning into some unheard-of shape, and
+seeming always to say, “There! beat that if you can!” Near the coast it
+assumes the form of a crazy Italian pine, with spindling trunk and
+massive head of foliage. Sometimes it divides in the middle, like an
+hour-glass, and again mimics a fir-tree in caricature; but he who would
+keep track of the acrobatic capers of the tupelo would have his hands
+full. Whatever its shape, however, its brilliant, glossy crimson foliage
+forms one of the most striking features of our October landscape.</p>
+
+<p>But I believe we were on the road to that carding-mill. We had almost
+forgotten it; and now, as we look ahead, we see the old lumber-shed that
+marks the upper ledge of Devil’s Hollow. From this old shed a
+trout-brook plunges through a series of rocky terraces, now winding
+among prostrate moss-grown trunks, now gurgling through the bare roots
+of great white birches, or spreading in a swift, glassy sheet as it
+pours across some broad shelving rock, and plunges from its edge in a
+filmy water-fall. It roars pent up in narrow cañons, and out again it
+swirls in a smooth basin worn in the solid rock. At almost every rod or
+two along its precipitous course there is a mill somewhere hid among the
+trees&mdash;queer, quaint little mills, some built up on high stone walls,
+others fed with trickling flumes which span from rock to rock,
+supporting on every beam a rounded cushion of velvety green moss, and
+hanging a fringe of ferns from almost every crevice. And one there is in
+ruins, fallen from its lofty perch, and piled in chaos in the stream.
+There are saw-mills, and shook-mills, and carding-mills, seven
+altogether in this one descent of about three hundred feet. The water
+enters the ravine as pure as crystal; but in its wild booming through
+race-ways, dams, and water-wheels, it gradually assumes a rich sienna
+hue from the <i>débris</i> of sawdust everywhere along its course. The
+interior of the ravine is musical with the trebles of the falling water
+and the accompaniment of the rumbling mills. Tiny rainbows gleam beneath
+the water-falls, and swarms of glistening bubbles and little islands of
+saffron-colored foam float away upon the dark-brown eddies.</p>
+
+<p>At last we reach the carding-mill, which is the lowest of them all&mdash;in<a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>
+every sense, it seems, for it is as I had feared: the flume is but a
+pile of brown and mouldy timbers in the bed of the stream, and the old
+box-wheel has rotted and fallen from its spokes, almost obscured beneath
+a rank growth of weeds. No sound of buzzing teasels, no rumbling of the
+water-wheel, no happy carder singing at his work: <i>nothing</i>&mdash;but a
+couple of boys, kneeling in a corner, sucking cider through a straw.
+Yes, the old mill has fallen from grace; but what else might one expect
+from a mill in “Devil’s Hollow,” where all its neighbors are engaged in
+making hogshead staves, and the very water has turned to ruddy wine?</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg107_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg107_sml.jpg" width="342" height="399" alt="THE CIDER MILL." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE CIDER MILL.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>The carding-machine is gone, and has given place to a rustic
+cider-press. A temporary undershot-wheel has been rigged beneath the
+floor, and a rude trough, patched up with sods, conducts the water from
+the stream.<a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a></p>
+
+<p>It is the same old cider-press we all remember, and with the same
+accessories. Here are casks of all sizes waiting to be filled, and the
+piles of party-colored apples spilled upon the floor from the farmers’
+wagons that every now and then back up to the open door. There is the
+same rustic harangue on leading agricultural topics, among which we hear
+a variety of opinions about that imaginary “line storm.”</p>
+
+<p>“Seems to gi’n the slip this year,” remarks one old long-limbed settler
+with a slope-roofed straw hat, “’n’ I don’t know zactly what to <i>make</i>
+on’t; but I ain’t so sartin nuther”&mdash;he now takes a wise observation of
+a small patch of blue sky through the trees overhead. “I cal’late we’ll
+git a leetle tetch on’t yit.”</p>
+
+<p>“Likenuff, likenuff,” responds another, with a squeaky voice; “the ar’s
+gittin’ ruther dampish, ’n’ my woman hez got the rheumatiz ag’in. She
+kin alluz tell when we’re goin’ to git a spell o’ weather; it’s sure to
+fetch her all along her spine. But I lay <i>most</i> store on them ar pesky
+tree-tuds. I heern um singin’ like all possessed ez I wuz comin’ through
+the woods yender; ’n’ it’s a sartin sign o’ rain when them ar critters
+gits agoin’, you kin depend on’t.”</p>
+
+<p>And now we hear all about the pumpkin and the corn crop, the potato
+yield, and the regular list of other subjects so dear to the rural
+heart.</p>
+
+<p>In a corner by themselves we see the pile of “vinegar nubbins”&mdash;a tanned
+and soft variety of apple&mdash;in all stages of variegation. The “hopper”
+receives the shovelfuls of fruit for the crushing “smasher,” which again
+supplies the straw-laid press. We hear the creaking turn of the lever
+screw, the yielding of the timbers, and a fresh burst of the trickling
+beverage flowing from the surrounding trough into the great wooden tub
+below. Here, too, is the swarm of eager urchins, with heads together,
+like a troop of flies around a grain of sugar. Ah! what unalloyed bliss
+is reflected from their countenances as they absorb the amber nectar
+through the intermediate straw&mdash;that golden link that I have missed for
+many a year!</p>
+
+<p>Outside upon the logs the refuse “pumice-cheese” has brought together
+all the yellow-jackets and late butterflies of the
+neighborhood&mdash;butterflies so tipsy that you can pick them up between
+your fingers. I never went so far with the yellow-jackets, for they have
+a hotter temper, and don’t like to be fooled with. Black hornets, too,
+are here, and they find a feast spread at their very door; for overhead,
+upon the beech, they<a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a> have hung their paper house, like a gray balloon
+caught among the branches.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg109_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg109_sml.jpg" width="331" height="459" alt="“THE LINE STORM.”" /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">“THE LINE STORM.”</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Now we hear a chatter and a scratching on the roof, where a pair of
+lively squirrels hold a game of tag; and ascending the rickety stairs
+into the loft above, we find the floor strewn with hickory-nuts, with
+neat round<a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a> holes cut through on either side, and numberless shaggy
+butternuts, too, with daylight let into their recesses also. The boards
+and beams are covered with cobweb trimmings, laden with wool-dust; and
+as we approach a pile of rusty iron near the murky window, we hear a
+scraping of sharp claws, the dropping of a nut between the rafters, and
+now a wild scampering on the roof overhead. Before we have fairly
+recovered from our surprise, we notice a sudden darkening of a hole in
+the shingles close by, where, still and motionless, two inquisitive
+black eyes look down at us. We have intruded upon private property, for
+this is the home of the squirrels. No one can dispute their title, for
+these little squatters have occupied the premises and held the fort for
+nearly twenty years.</p>
+
+<p>They, too, have found forage close at hand, from the nut-grove upon the
+hill-side yonder&mdash;a yellow bank of foliage of clustered hickories and
+beeches, and rounded domes of chestnuts&mdash;a grove whose every rock and
+bush is my old-time friend; where there are “sermons in stones,” and
+every tree speaks volumes.</p>
+
+<p>Here is the low thicket of weeds and hazel-bushes where we always
+flushed that flock of quail, or started up some lively white-tailed hare
+that jumped away among the quivering brakes and golden-rod. Here are
+soft beds of rich green moss, studded with scarlet berries of
+winter-green and partridge-vine. Now we come upon a creeping mat of
+princess-pine, and here among the leaves we had almost stepped upon a
+spreading chestnut-burr&mdash;that same burr I have so often seen before,
+that same fuzzy, open palm holding out its tempting bait to lure the
+eagerness of youth; an eagerness which always invested a neighbor’s
+chestnuts with a peculiar charm too tempting to resist; “take one,” it
+seems to say, as it did in years ago; and its hedge of thorny prickles
+truly typifies the dangers which surrounded such an undertaking, for
+these trees belong to Deacon Turney, and he prizes them as though their
+yellow autumn leaves were so much gold. He guards them with an eagle’s
+eye, and he gathers all their harvest; no single nut is ever known to
+sprout in Turney’s woods if <i>he</i> knows it.</p>
+
+<p>This pointed reminder among the leaves fairly pricks my conscience as I
+recall the many October escapades in which it formed the chief
+attraction. I remember one occasion in particular, for it is indelibly
+impressed on my memory, and it was on this very spot. A party of
+adventurous lads, myself among the number, were out for a glorious
+holiday. Each had his canvas bag across his shoulder, and we stole along
+the<a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a> stone wall yonder, and entered the woods beneath that group of
+chestnuts. Two of us acted as outposts on picket guard; and another,
+young Teddy Shoopegg by name, the best climber in the village, did the
+shaking. He prided himself on being able to “shin up any tree in the
+caounty,” and after he had once got up among those chestnut-trees we
+stood from under, and in a very short space of time no single burr was
+left among their branches. There were five busy pairs of hands beneath
+those trees, I can tell you, for each one of us fully realized the
+necessity of making the most of his time, not knowing how soon the
+warning cry from our outposts might put us all to headlong flight; for
+the alarm, “Turney’s coming!” was enough to lift the hair of any boy in
+town.</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 330px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg111_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg111_sml.jpg" width="330" height="528" alt="A POINTED REMINDER." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">A POINTED REMINDER.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>But luck seemed to favor us on that day; we “cleaned out” six big
+chestnut-trees, and then turned our attention to the hickories. There
+was a splendid tall shagbark close by, with branches fairly loaded with
+the<a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a> white nuts in their open shucks. They were all ready to drop, and
+when the shaking once commenced, the nuts came down like a shower of
+hail, bounding from the rocks, rattling among the dry leaves, and
+keeping up a clatter all around. We scrambled on all fours, and gathered
+them by quarts and quarts. There was no need of poking over the leaves
+for them, the ground was covered with them in plain sight. While busily
+engaged, we noticed an ominous lull among the branches overhead.</p>
+
+<p>“’Sst! ’sst!” whispered Shoopegg up above; “I see old Turney on his
+white horse daown the road yender.”</p>
+
+<p>“Coming this way?” also in a whisper, from below.</p>
+
+<p>“I dunno yit, but I jest guess you’d better be gittin’ reddy to leg it,
+fer he’s hitchin’ his old nag ’t the side o’ the road. <i>Yis</i>, sir, I
+bleeve he’s a-cummin’. Shoopegg, you’d better be gittin’ aout o’ this,”
+and he commenced to drop hap-hazard from his lofty perch. In a moment,
+however, he seemed to change his mind, and paused, once more upon the
+watch. “Say, fellers,” he again broke in, as we were preparing for a
+retreat, “he’s gone off to’rd the cedars; he ain’t cummin’ this way at
+<i>all</i>.” So he again ascended into the tree-top, and finished his shaking
+in peace, and we our picking also. There was still another tree, with
+elegant large nuts, that we had all concluded to “finish up on.” It
+would not do to leave it. They were the largest and thinnest-shelled
+nuts in town, and there were over a bushel in sight on the branch tips.
+Shoopegg was up among them in two minutes, and they were showered down
+in torrents as before. And what splendid, perfect nuts they were! We
+bagged them with eager hands, picked the ground all clean, and, with
+jolly chuckles at our luck, were just about thinking of starting for
+home with our well-rounded sacks, when a change came over the spirit of
+our dreams. There was a suspicious noise in the shrubbery near by, and
+in a moment more we heard our doom.</p>
+
+<p>“Jest yeu look <i>ee</i>ah, yeu boys!” exclaimed a high-pitched voice from
+the neighboring shrubbery, accompanied by the form of Deacon Turney,
+approaching at a brisk pace, hardly thirty feet away. “Don’t yeu think
+yeu’ve got jest abaout <i>enuff</i> o’ them nuts?”</p>
+
+<p>Of course a wild panic ensued, in which we made for the bags and dear
+life; but Turney was prepared and ready for the emergency, and, raising
+a huge old shot-gun, he levelled it, and yelled, “Don’t any on ye stir
+ner move, or by Christopher I’ll blow the heels clean off’n the hull
+<i>pile</i> on ye. I’d <i>shoot</i> ye quicker’n <i>lightni’</i>.<a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>”</p>
+
+<p>And we believed him, for his aim was true, and his whole expression was
+not that of a man who was trifling. I never shall forget the
+uncomfortable sensation that I experienced as I looked into the muzzle
+of that double-barrelled shot-gun, and saw both hammers fully raised
+too. And I can clearly see now the squint and the glaring eye that
+glanced along those barrels. There was a wonderfully persuasive power
+lurking in those horizontal tubes; so I at once hastened to inform the
+deacon that we were “not going to run.”</p>
+
+<p>“Wa’al,” he drawled, “it looked a leetle thet <i>way</i>, I thort, a spell
+<i>ago</i>;” and he still kept us in the field of his weapon, till at length
+I exclaimed, in desperation.</p>
+
+<p>“For gracious sake! point that gun in some other <i>way</i>, will you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Wa’al, <i>no</i>! I’m not fer pintin’ it ennywhar else jest <i>yit</i>&mdash;not until
+you’ve sot them ar <i>bags</i> daown agin, jist whar ye <i>got</i> ’em, every
+<i>one</i> on ye.” The bags were speedily replaced, and he slowly lowered his
+gun.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg113_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg113_sml.jpg" width="340" height="380" alt="AFTER THE SHELL-BARKS" /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">AFTER THE SHELL-BARKS</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>“Wa’al, naow,” he continued, as he came up in our midst, “this is putty
+bizniss, <i>ain’t</i> it? Bin havin’ a putty likely sort o’ time teu, I sh’d
+jedge from the looks o’ these ’ere <i>bags</i>. One&mdash;two&mdash;<i>six</i> on ’em; an’ I
+vaow they must be nigh on teu a half bushel in every pleggy <i>one</i> on
+’em. Wa’al, naow”&mdash;with his peculiar drawl&mdash;“look eeah: you’re a<a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a> putty
+ondustrious lot o’ <i>thieves</i>, I’m <i>blest</i> if ye ain’t.” But the deacon
+did all the talking, for his manœuvres were such as to render us
+speechless. “Putty likely place teu cum a-nuttin’, ain’t it?” Pause.
+“Putty nice mess o’ shell-barks ye got thar, I tell ye naow.&mdash;Quite a
+sight o’ <i>chestnuts</i> in <i>yourn</i>, ain’t they?”</p>
+
+<p>There was only one spoken side to this dialogue, but the pauses were
+eloquent on both sides, and we boys kept up a deal of tall thinking as
+we watched the deacon alternate his glib remarks by the gradual removal
+of the bags to the foot of a neighboring tree. This done, he seated
+himself upon a rock beside them.</p>
+
+<p>“<i>Thar!</i>” he exclaimed, removing his tall hat and wiping his
+white-fringed forehead with a red bandanna handkerchief. “I’m much
+<i>obleeged</i>. I’ve been a-watchin’ on ye gittin’ these ’ere nuts the hull
+arternoon. I thort ez haow yeu might like to know on’t.” And then, as
+though a happy thought had struck him, what should he do but
+deliberately spit on his hands and grasp his gun. “Look <i>ee</i>ah”&mdash;a
+pause, in which he cocked both barrels&mdash;“yeu boys wuz paowerful anxyis
+teu git <i>away</i> from <i>ee</i>ah a spell ago. Naow yeu kin <i>git</i> ez lively ez
+yeu pleze; your chores is done fer to-day.” And bang! went one of the
+gun-barrels directly over our heads.</p>
+
+<p>We <i>got</i>, and when once out of gun-range we paid the deacon a wealth of
+those rare compliments for both eye and ear that always swell the boys’
+vocabulary.</p>
+
+<p>“All right,” he yelled back in answer, as he transported the bags across
+the field. “Cum agin next year&mdash;cum agin. Alluz welcome! alluz welcome!”</p>
+
+<p>As I have already said, the deacon gathered all his nut
+harvest&mdash;sometimes by a very novel method.</p>
+
+<p>Who does not remember some such episode of the old jolly days? If it was
+not a Deacon Turney, it was some one else. I am sure his counterpart
+exists in every country town, and in the memory of every boyhood
+experience.</p>
+
+<p>We remember, perhaps, the sweet hazel-nuts which we gathered in their
+brown husks and spread to dry upon the garret floor, and how those
+mischievous mice avenged the deacon’s wrongs as they invaded our
+treasured store, and transported it to the nooks and kinks among the
+rafters and beneath the floor. Then there were those rambles after
+“fox-grapes,” and the “gunning” tramps, when we stole with cautious step
+upon the<a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a> unseen “Bob White” whistling for us among the brush near by,
+when the startling <i>whirr</i> of the ruffed grouse from almost under our
+feet sent an electric thrill up our backs and along our arms, even
+touching off the powder in our barrels unawares. There were box-traps in
+the woods, and snares among the copses, and lots of other mischief of
+which we would not care to tell.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg115_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg115_sml.jpg" width="326" height="243" alt="A CORNER OF THE FARM." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">A CORNER OF THE FARM.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>There was another little three-cornered nut that fell among the
+beech-trees where we held our October picnics, and the autumn beech
+forest I remember as a lovely woodland parlor. We sit upon a painted
+rock, in the shadow of a drooping hemlock, perhaps. Beyond, we look
+across among the smooth gray tree-trunks, where sidelong shadows softly
+stripe the matted leaves, with here and there a shining shaft of sunbeam
+lighting up the carpet, or a glinting spray of sun-tipped leaves that
+flicker above their shadows. The woods are filled with a luminous glow
+such as no summer forest ever knew&mdash;an all-pervading light which seems
+almost independent of the sunshine, as though living in the leaf itself.
+It floods the mottled bark, and transforms its ashy tints to softened
+autumn grays. It searches out the shadows of the evergreens, and throws<a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>
+its mellow glow upon the rocks among their recesses. It permeates the
+whole interior as though it were transfigured through a golden-colored
+glass.</p>
+
+<p>A quick, sharp whistle surprises you from the herbage near by, and a
+striped chickaree skips across the leaves and dives into his burrow at
+the foot of an old stump not far away. There are various other sounds
+that come to you if you sit quietly in a beech wood. Now it is a tiny
+footfall, a pat-pat upon the leaves, and a little brown bird is seen,
+hopping in and out among the undergrowth, scratching and pecking like a
+little hen among the leaf mould. Then comes a galloping sound, and you
+know there is a scampering hare somewhere about. And at last a peeping
+frog gains confidence, and starts up a trill somewhere behind you. He is
+soon joined by another, and still others, until a chorus of the shrill
+voices echoes among the trees, some from the around, some from the limbs
+overhead; and if you only sit perfectly still, you may hear a
+venturesome voice, perhaps, at your very elbow; for these little peepers
+are capricious songsters, and only sing before a quiet, attentive
+audience. Now a silly green katydid flits by, like an animated gauzy
+leaf; and quick as thought a kingbird darts out from the leaves
+overhead, hovers in mid-air for a second, and is away again; and
+luckless katydid wishes she <i>hadn’t</i>.</p>
+
+<p>See the variety of beeches, too! Here are slender, dappled stems, clean
+and trim; and others, great giants with fluted trunks and gnarled roots,
+and with eccentric limbs reaching out in most fantastic angles; but all
+spreading above in a graceful, airy screen of intermingled tracery and
+sunlight, where slender branches bend and sway beneath the agile
+squirrel as he leaps from tree to tree, and the leaves clatter with the
+falling nuts. Behind us a soft fluttering of many wings betrays a
+slender mountain-ash, with its drooping clusters of berries, growing in
+an open, rocky space near by&mdash;where a flock of cedar birds assemble
+among the fruit, or scatter away amid the evergreens at your slightest
+movement. Turning your head in another direction, you can follow the
+course of an old farm-road that leads out upon a bright clearing,
+thick-set with light-green, feathery ferns. A few rods beyond, it makes
+a sudden downward turn through a dense grove of lofty pines and
+hemlocks. Here are “dim aisles” where dwell perpetual twilight&mdash;where no
+ray of sun has entered for well-nigh a century&mdash;only, perhaps, as it is
+brought down in a glistening sunbeam within the crystal bead of balsam
+upon some dropping cone. There is a<a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a> solemn stillness in these stately
+halls, in which your very footfall is proscribed and hushed in the
+depths of the brown and silent carpet. There are old, venerable
+gray-beards here, and fallen monarchs lying prostrate among the rugged
+rocks; and here and there among the brown debris a fungus lifts its
+head, to tell of other generations that lie crumbling beneath the mould.
+Now among the lofty columns, like a magnificent illuminated window in
+some vast cathedral, comes a glimpse of the outer world with its autumn
+colors; and here the vaulted aisle soon leads us. We find a dazzling
+contrast; for in the sombre shadows of the pine-forest one readily
+forgets the month, or even the season. Here we approach a rippling
+trout-stream, and as we stop to rest upon its tottering bridge we look
+across a long brook meadow, where the asters screen the ground in
+mid-air in a purple sea&mdash;one of the rarest spectacles of autumn. But in
+this swamp lot there are presented a continual series of just such rich
+displays from spring-time till the winter.</p>
+
+<p>I know of no other place in which the progress of the year is so readily
+traced as in these swampy fallow lands. They are a living calendar, not
+merely of the seasons alone, but of every month successively; and its
+record is almost unmistakably disclosed. It is whispered in the fragrant
+breath of flowers, and of the aromatic herbage you crush beneath your
+feet. It floats about on filmy wings of dragon-fly and butterfly, or
+glistens in the air on silky seeds. It skips upon the surface of the
+water, or swims among the weeds beneath; and is noised about in myriads
+of tell-tale songs among the reeds and sedges. The swallows and the
+starlings proclaim it in their flight, and the very absence of these
+living features is as eloquent as life itself. Even in the simple story
+of the leaf, the bud, the blossom, and the downy seed, it is told as
+plainly as though written in prosaic words and strewn among the herbage.</p>
+
+<p>In the early, blustering days of March, there is a stir beneath the
+thawing ground, and the swamp cabbage-root sends up a well protected
+scout to explore among the bogs; but so dismal are the tidings which he
+brings, that for weeks no other venturing sprout dares lift its head. He
+braves alone the stormy month&mdash;the solitary sign of spring, save,
+perhaps, the lengthening of the alder catkins that loosen in the wind.
+April woos the yellow cowslips into bloom along the water’s edge, and
+the golden willow twigs shake out their perfumed tassels. In May the
+prickly carex blossoms among the tussocks, and the calamus buds burst
+forth among their flat, green blades. June is heralded on right and left
+by the unfurling of<a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a> blue-flags, and the eyebright blue winks and blinks
+as it awakens in the dazzling July sun.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg118_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg118_sml.jpg" width="328" height="494" alt="BEECH-NUTTING." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">BEECH-NUTTING.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Then follows brimful August, with the summer’s consummation of
+luxuriance and bloom; with flowers in dense profusion in bouquets of
+iron-weed and thoroughworts, of cardinal flowers and fragrant clethra,
+with their host of blossoming companions. The milk-weed pods fray out
+their early floss upon September breezes, and the blue petals of the
+gentian first unfold their fringes. October overwhelms us with the
+friendly tokens of burr marigolds and bidens; while its thickets of
+black-alder lose their autumn verdure, and<a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a> leave November with a
+“burning bush” of scarlet berries hitherto half-hidden in the leafage.
+Now, too, the copses of witch-hazel bedeck themselves, and are yellow
+with their tiny ribbons. December’s name is written in wreaths of snow
+upon the withered stalks of slender weeds and rushes, which soon lie
+bent and broken in the lap of January, crushed beneath their winter
+weight. And in fulfilment of the cycle, February sees the swelling buds
+of willow, with their restless pussies eager for the spring, half
+creeping from their winter cells.</p>
+
+<p>The October day is a dream, bright and beautiful as the rainbow, and as
+brief and fugitive. The same clouds and the same sun may be with us on
+the morrow, but the rainbow will have gone. There is a destroyer that
+goes abroad by night; he fastens upon every leaf, and freezes out its
+last drop of life, and leaves it on the parent stem, pale, withered, and
+dying.</p>
+
+<p>Then come those closing days of dissolution, the saddest of the year,
+when all nature is filled with phantoms, and the gaunt and naked trees
+moan in the wind&mdash;every leaf a mockery, every breeze a sigh. The air
+seems weighed with a premonition of the dreariness to come. The
+landscape is darkened in a melancholy monotone, and death is written
+everywhere. You may walk the woods and fields for hours without a gleam
+of comfort or a cheering sound. We hear, perhaps, the hollow roll of the
+woodpecker upon some neighboring tree; but even he is clad in mourning:
+it is a muffled drum, and the resounding limb is dead. You sit beneath
+the old oak-tree, but it is a lifeless rustle that grates upon your ear,
+while you listen half beseechingly for some cheering note from the
+robins in the thicket near; but they are coy and silent now, and their
+flight is toward the southern hills. A villanous shrike must needs come
+upon the scene: he alights upon a limb near by, with blood upon his
+beak. Murder is in his eye, and his mission here is death. And now we
+hear a noisy crow o’erhead: he perches upon a neighboring tree in hungry
+scrutiny. And what is he but carrion’s bird, that revels in decay and
+death, with raiment black as a funeral pall? In the cold gray sky we see
+their scattered flocks blowing in the wind with sidelong flight, and in
+the field below that mocking cadaver, the man of straw, shaking his
+flimsy arms at them in wild contortions.</p>
+
+<p>There is a hopeless despondency abroad in all the air, in which the
+summer medleys of the birds taunt us with their memories. We yearn for
+one such joyful sound to break the gloomy reverie. But what bird<a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a> could
+swell his throat in song amidst such cheerlessness? No, Nature does not
+thus defeat her purpose. The hopefulness of Spring, the joyful
+consummation of Summer, have fled; their mission is fulfilled, and these
+are days for meditation on the past and future. All nature speaks of
+death; and there are voices of despair, and others eloquent with hope
+and trust. There are dead leaves that crumble into dust beneath our
+feet; but, if we look higher, there are others that conceal the promise
+of eternal life, where the undeveloped being, that perfect symbol,<a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>
+weaves his silken shroud, and awaits the coming of his day of full
+perfection. In the ground beneath he seeks his sepulchre, and he knows
+that at the appointed time he will burst his cerements and fly away.
+These are inobtrusive, silent testimonies; but they are here, and need
+only to be sought to unfold their prophecies.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg120_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg120_sml.jpg" width="327" height="520" alt="THE NORTH WIND." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE NORTH WIND.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>But there comes a respite even in these late gloomy days. There is a
+lull in the work of devastation, in which the sunny skies and magic haze
+of October come back to us in the charming dreaminess of the Indian
+summer. A brief farewell&mdash;perhaps a day, perhaps a week; but however
+long, it is a parting smile that we love to recall in the dreariness
+that follows. The sky is luminous with soft sun-lit clouds, and the hazy
+air is laden with spring-like breezes, with now and then a welcome
+cricket-song or light-hearted bird-note, for, although long upon their
+way, the birds have not yet all departed. They twitter cheerily among
+the trees and thickets, and should you listen quietly you perhaps might
+hear an echo of spring again in the warble of the robin upon the
+dog-wood-tree. Here they have loitered by the way among the scarlet
+berries. Not only robins, but cedar-birds and thrushes are here, in
+successive flocks, from morn till night.</p>
+
+<p>The fields are dull with faded golden-rods and asters, among whose downy
+seeds the frolicking chickadees and snow-birds hold a jubilee. The maze
+of twigs and branches in the distant hills has enveloped them in a smoky
+gray, and the sound of rustling leaves follows your footsteps in your
+woodland rambles. The fringe of yellow petals is unfolding on the
+witch-hazel boughs, and if you only knew the place, you might discover
+in some forsaken nook a solitary pale-blue lamp of fringed gentian still
+flickering among the withered leaves. Now a lively twittering and a hum
+of wings surprises you, and before you can turn your head a happy little
+troop of birds sweep across your path, and are away among the
+evergreens. They are white buntings, and their presence here is like a
+chill, for they come from the icy regions of the North, and they bring
+the snow upon their wings. The Indian summer is soon a thing of the
+past. Perhaps before another daybreak it will have flown. There is no
+dawn upon that morning. The night runs into a day of dismal, cheerless
+twilight, and the sky is overcast with ominous darkness. That angry
+cloud that left us, driven away before the conquering Spring, now lowers
+above the northward mountain; we see its livid face and feel its
+blighting breath&mdash;“a hard, dull bitterness of cold,” that sweeps along
+the moor<a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a> in noisy triumph, that howls and tears among the trembling
+trees, and smothers out the last smouldering flame of faded Autumn.</p>
+
+<p>The final leaf is torn from the tree. The lingering birds depart the
+desolation for scenes more tranquil, and I too with them, for nothing
+here invites my tarrying. The Autumn days are gone, grim Winter is at
+our door, and the covering snow will soon enshroud the earth, subdued
+and silent in its winter sleep.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg122_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg122_sml.jpg" width="197" height="126" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg124_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg124_sml.jpg" width="104" height="98" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg125_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg125_sml.jpg" width="314" height="468" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a></p>
+
+<p><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a></p>
+
+<h2><a name="WINTER" id="WINTER"></a>W<small>INTER</small>.</h2>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg127_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg127_sml.jpg" width="336" height="532" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a></p>
+
+<p><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a></p>
+
+<p><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a></p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i3">A WINTER IDYL<br /></span>
+<span class="i4">&mdash;Prologue&mdash;<br /></span>
+
+</div><div class="stanza">
+
+<span class="i0">A chill sad ending of a dreary day.<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">The waning light in stillness dies away.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Bequeaths no ray of hope the void to fill<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">But lends to gloomy thoughts more sadness still.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">All nature hushed beneath a snowy shroud<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Darkness and death their sovereign rule decree<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">O, reign of dread, of cruel blasts that kill<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Thy cycle brings a heavy heart to me.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">How many thus their Winter’s advent view<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Whose darkened faith no daylight ever knew.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Alas for him who thinks the grave his doom<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Or sees the sun go down behind the tomb.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">“Seek and ye shall find”. On every hand<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Mute prophecies their mission tell.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Yield but a listening ear and they shall say<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">‘The dead but sleep, they do not pass away’<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Else why mid earth and heaven on yonder tree<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">That type of life in death, the living tomb?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why the imago from dark cerements free<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Winging its upward flight from earthly gloom?<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Why this device supreme unless a prophecy<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Of resurrected life and immortality.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Oh thou whose downcast eyes refuse to seek<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">See! even at the grave the sign is given.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">The snow-clad evergreen, eternal life<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Clothed in celestial purity from heaven.<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Even thus life’s Winter should be blest<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Not dark and dead but full of peace and rest.<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p class="nind"><span class="letra">S</span>ILENTLY, like thoughts that come and go, the snow-flakes fall, each one
+a gem. The whitened air conceals all earthly trace, and leaves to<a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>
+memory the space to fill. I look upon a blank, whereon my fancy paints,
+as could no hand of mine, the pictures and the poems of a boyhood life;
+and even as the undertone of a painting, be it warm or cool, shall
+modify or change the color laid upon it, so this cold and frosty
+background through the window transfigures all my thoughts, and forms
+them into winter memories legion like the snow. Oh that I could
+translate for other eyes the winter idyl painted there! I see a living
+past whose counterpart I well could wish might be a common fortune. I
+see in all its joyous phases the gladsome winter in New England, the
+snow-clad hills with bare and shivering trees, the homestead dear, the
+old gray barn hemmed in with peaked drifts. I see the skating-pond, and
+hear the ringing, intermingled shouts of the noisy, shuffling game, the
+black ice written full with testimony of the winter’s brisk hilarity.
+Down the hard-packed road with glancing sled I speed, past frightened
+team and startled way-side groups; o’er “thank you, marms,” I fly in
+clear mid-air, and crouching low, with sidelong spurts of snowy spray, I
+sweep the sliding curve. Now past the village church and cosy parsonage.
+Now scudding close beneath the hemlocks, hanging low with their piled
+and tufted weight of snow. The way-side bits like dizzy streaks whiz by,
+the old rail fence becomes a quivering tint of gray. The road-side weeds
+bow after me, and in the swirling eddy chasing close upon my feet, sway
+to and fro. Soon, like an arrow from the bow, I shoot across the “Town
+Brook” bridge, and, jumping out beyond, skip the sinking ground, and
+with an anxious eye and careful poise I “trim the ship,” and, hoping,
+leave the rest to fate.</p>
+
+<p>Perhaps I land on both runners, perhaps I don’t; that depends. I’ve
+tried both ways I know, and if I remember rightly, I always found it
+royal jolly fun; for what cared I at a bruise, or a pint of snow down my
+back, when I got it there myself?</p>
+
+<p>The average New England boy is hard to kill, and I was one of that kind.
+Any boy who could brave the hidden mysteries and capricious favoritism
+of those fifteen dislocating “thank you, marms,” and <i>hang together</i>
+through it all, and, having so done, finish that experience with a
+plunging double somersault into a crusted snow-bank, or, perchance, into
+a stone wall&mdash;if he can do this, I say, and survive the fun, then there
+is no reason why he should not live to tell of it in old age, for never
+in the flesh will he go through a rougher ordeal. I’ve known a boy who
+“<i>hated</i> the old district school because the hard benches hurt him so,<a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>”
+and who would rest his aching limbs for hours together in this gentle
+sort of exercise. “The fine print made his eyes ache, and he couldn’t
+study;” and yet when one day he comes home with one eye all colors of
+the rainbow, “it’s <i>nothing</i>.” “Consistency is a jewel.” Boys don’t
+generally wear jewels. But they are all alike. Boys will be boys, and if
+they only live through it, they will some day look back and wonder at
+their good fortune.</p>
+
+<p>At the foot of that long hill the “Town Brook” gurgles on its winding
+way, and passing beneath the weather-beaten bridge, it makes a sudden
+turn, and spreads into a glassy pond behind the bulwarks of the saw-mill
+dam. In summer, were we as near as this, we would hear the intermittent
+ring of the whizzing saw, the clanking cogs, and the tuneful sounds of
+the falling bark-bound slabs; but now, like its bare willows that were
+wont to wave their leafy boughs with caressing touch upon the mossy
+roof, the old mill shows no sign of life. Its pulse is frozen, and the
+silent wheel is resting from its labors beneath a coverlet of snow. Who
+is there who has not in some recess of the memory a dear old haunt like
+this, some such sleeping pond radiant with reflections of the scenes of
+early life? Thither in those winter days we came, our numbers swelled
+from right and left with eager volunteers for the game, till at last,
+almost a hundred strong, we rally on the smooth black ice.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 303px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg129_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg129_sml.jpg" width="303" height="524" alt="SNOW-FLAKES OF MEMORY." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">SNOW-FLAKES OF MEMORY.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>The opposing leaders choose their sides, and with loud hurrahs we
+penetrate the thickets at the water’s edge, each to cut his special
+choice of stick&mdash;that festive cudgel, with curved and club-shaped end,
+known to the boy as a<a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a> “shinney-stick,” but to the calm recollection of
+after-life principally as an instrument of torture, indiscriminately
+promiscuous in its playful moments. Were I to swing one of those dainty
+little clubs again, I would rather that the end were tied up in
+something soft, and that this should be the universal rule; otherwise I
+don’t think I would play. I would prefer to sit on the bank and watch
+the sport, or make myself useful in looking after the dead and wounded.
+But to the “average New England boy” it makes a great deal of difference
+who swings the club, and what it is swung for. If it is whirled in
+<i>play</i>, and takes him with a blow that <i>ought</i> to kill him, and <i>would</i>
+if he were not a boy, why then he laughs, and thinks it’s good fun, and
+goes in and gets another. But if the parental guardian has any reason to
+swing a stick even one-tenth the size, the whole neighborhood thinks
+there is a boy being murdered. So much depends upon a name sometimes.</p>
+
+<p style="clear:both;">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg131_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg131_sml.jpg" width="338" height="478" alt="THE OLD MILL-POND." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE OLD MILL-POND.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>How clearly and distinctly I recall those toughening, rollicking sports
+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<a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a> 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<a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a> 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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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?</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;a crystal fairy
+grotto, set with diamonds and frost ferns, annihilated at a step.</p>
+
+<p>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<a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>
+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 <i>qui
+vive</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p>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!</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<div class="figright" style="width: 251px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg133_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg133_sml.jpg" width="251" height="365" alt="THE FIRST SNOW." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE FIRST SNOW.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>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<a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a> 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&mdash;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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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<a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg135_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg135_sml.jpg" width="336" height="530"
+alt="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&mdash;“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?"
+
+title="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&mdash;“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?" /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">MUTE PROPHECIES.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a></p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 <i>bug</i> to intrude himself
+on any one; but once draw him into conversation and he will do his share
+of the talking&mdash;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 <i>man</i> 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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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<a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a> 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.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg137_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg137_sml.jpg" width="337" height="539" alt="THE TWITCH-UP." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE TWITCH-UP.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>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<a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a> 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&mdash;“a
+pavilion till the storm is overpast.”</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;sometimes to me almost oppressive in its universal
+greenness&mdash;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.”</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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<a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a> 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.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg139_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg139_sml.jpg" width="337" height="535" alt="THE WINTER’S DARLING." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE WINTER’S DARLING.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>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<a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg140_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg140_sml.jpg" width="330" height="522"
+
+alt="branch with scarlet berries, and further st&mdash;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.
+
+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"
+
+title="branch with scarlet berries, and further st&mdash;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.
+
+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" /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">“WHO’S THAT?”</span>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a></p>
+
+<p class="nind">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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg141_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg141_sml.jpg" width="340" height="348" alt="SUNSHINE AND SHADOW IN THE WOODS." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">SUNSHINE AND SHADOW IN THE WOODS.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a></p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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 <i>some</i> subject, and I knew pretty well what that
+subject <i>was</i>.</p>
+
+<p>“Hello, Nathan!” I ask, “what’s up?”</p>
+
+<p>He turns quickly, and I observe that his usually good-natured Yankee
+face now wears a troubled expression.</p>
+
+<p>“My dander’s up&mdash;that’s what’s up,” he replies, a little sullenly.</p>
+
+<p>“They tell me you’ve been after a fox, Nathan; did you catch him?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, ’n I don’t cal’late to try agin nuther, he’s <i>airnt his livi’</i> fer
+all <i>me</i>;” and with an impetuous fling he sent the old trap into a
+corner of the wood-shed.</p>
+
+<p>I am soon by his side, anxious to hear all about it. “What’s the fox
+done?” I ask, eagerly.</p>
+
+<p>“What <i>hain’t</i> 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 <i>coddi’</i>; but <i>thar</i>, yeu can’t tell me nuthin’ ’baout
+<i>foxes</i>. 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 <i>show</i> for’t, ’n I’m <i>sick</i> on’t. I tell ye that ar feller is
+<i>mischievouser than pizen</i>, ’n his hed’s as long as a horse’s.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, what’s he been doing, Nathan?”</p>
+
+<p>“<i>Doin’?</i> 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 <i>fust</i> 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&mdash;cal’latin’<a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg143_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg143_sml.jpg" width="333" height="531"
+alt="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-"
+
+title="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-" /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">A SUNNY CORNER.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p class="nind">haired<a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a> thief hez knabbed every
+tarnal pattridge ’n Bob White they iz.”</p>
+
+<p>And so he went on for half an hour, telling me all the various
+stratagems by which Reynard had outwitted him.</p>
+
+<p>“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 <i>lick</i>, ’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 <i>jest cum</i>
+from thar. <i>No more fox fer me</i>; s’elp me gosh!”</p>
+
+<p>“Why,” I ask, “what was the matter down there, Nathan?”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, <i>blame my stogys</i>, 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
+<i>live</i> off’n um; ’n he <i>kin</i> fer all <i>me</i>!”</p>
+
+<div class="figleft" style="width: 273px;">
+<a href="images/ilpg144_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg144_sml.jpg" width="273" height="501" alt="WINTER BROWSING." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">WINTER BROWSING.</span>
+</div>
+
+<p>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 <i>cruel</i>,” and
+seemed to prefer the more humane way of wounding them with<a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a> 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.</p>
+
+<p style="clear:both;">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg145_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg145_sml.jpg" width="340" height="350" alt="A JANUARY THAW." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">A JANUARY THAW.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>Was ever perfume sweeter than that all-pervading fragrance of the<a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>
+sweet-scented hay? and was ever an interior so truly picturesque, so
+full of quiet harmony?</p>
+
+<p>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!</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;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&mdash;how
+pleasant their low breathing&mdash;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.</p>
+
+<p>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?</p>
+
+<p>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<a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a> 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&mdash;a shelter
+from the cold and cruel wind! But no&mdash;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<a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a> beckonings tipped your horses with the whip. Away you go
+through the deep ravine, with a <i>jing, jing, jing</i> 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&mdash;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 <i>jing, jing, jing</i>, 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&mdash;but not to memory dear; for all through life we shall hear
+those happy jingling bells.</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg147_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg147_sml.jpg" width="335" height="243" alt="THE MOONLIGHT RIDE." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE MOONLIGHT RIDE.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>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!</p>
+
+<p>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&mdash;a thousand
+things; and what a precious living picture of sweet home-life they all
+bring back to me!</p>
+
+<p>But look! there is another hidden picture in the book of life&mdash;a
+shadowed page, which we had well-nigh forgotten. See that crouching
+figure in the dark, deserted street&mdash;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:<a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a></p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg149_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg149_sml.jpg" width="335" height="371" alt="THE SHADOWED PAGE." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE SHADOWED PAGE.</span>
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">“Once I was loved for my innocent grace,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Flattered and sought for the charm of my face.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Father, mother, sisters, all,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">God, and myself, I have lost in my fall.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">The veriest wretch that goes shivering by<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Will take a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">For of all that is on or about me, I know,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">There is nothing that’s pure but the beautiful snow.<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How strange it should be that this beautiful snow<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">How strange it would be, when the night comes again,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain,<br /></span>
+<span class="i1">Fainting, freezing, dying alone!”<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+<p><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a></p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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<a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>
+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&mdash;yea, <i>doubting</i> even; but finding
+in the precept of the “golden rule” an inspiration worthy the devotion
+and the effort of his life: “By their <i>fruits</i> ye shall know them.”</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg151_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg151_sml.jpg" width="338" height="214" alt="THE GOOD PHYSICIAN." /></a>
+<br />
+<span class="caption">THE GOOD PHYSICIAN.</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>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<a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a> 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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>One by one the feathered flocks returned, and the little snow-birds and
+the buntings, seeing their place usurped, left for the northward<a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>
+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,</p>
+
+<p class="figcenter">
+<a href="images/ilpg153_lg.jpg">
+<img src="images/ilpg153_sml.jpg" width="327" height="529" alt="" /></a>
+</p>
+
+<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Till at last the sweet Arbutus<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Nestling close on Nature’s breast<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Felt a throb · a warm pulsation<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Rouse it from its dreamy rest·<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Throwing wide its little portals<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">From its coverlet of snow<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">It peeped forth from the leafy shelter<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Into a valley white below·<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">“Am I dreaming? · Shall the Winter<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Stifle and freeze my early breath<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Nay · hark! · I hear the Bluebird singing<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">’Spring has come’ he answereth·<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">“Ah! Frost-flower in thy grotto yonder<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Crystal sun-gem white and clear<br /></span>
+<span class="i0">Thy reign must cease when I awaken<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Farewell! pale bloom · thy fate draws near·<br /></span>
+</div><div class="stanza">
+<span class="i0">Bleak Winter is thine<br /></span>
+<span class="i2">Love’s Spring-time is mine·<br /></span>
+</div></div>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Pastoral Days, by William Hamilton Gibson
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+</pre>
+
+</body>
+</html>
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pastoral Days, by William Hamilton Gibson
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license
+
+
+Title: Pastoral Days
+       or Memories of a New England Year
+
+Author: William Hamilton Gibson
+
+Release Date: November 3, 2012 [EBook #41278]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTORAL DAYS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+PASTORAL DAYS
+
+
+
+
+PASTORAL DAYS
+OR
+MEMORIES OF A NEW ENGLAND YEAR
+
+BY
+
+W. HAMILTON GIBSON
+
+Illustrated
+
+NEW YORK
+
+HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
+
+1881
+
+Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by
+
+HARPER & BROTHERS,
+
+In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
+
+_All rights reserved._
+
+
+TO
+
+ONE WHOSE CLOSE COMPANIONSHIP
+
+HAS WROUGHT THAT HARMONY AND PEACE OF MIND FROM WHICH THIS
+BOOK HAS SPRUNG, AND TO WHOM ITS EVERY PAGE RECALLS
+A REMINISCENCE OF THE PAST IDENTIFIED
+WITH MEMORIES OF MY OWN
+
+This Memoir is Lovingly Inscribed
+
+OUR SOUVENIR
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE CYCLE.
+
+
+SPRING:           PAGE
+
+_The Awakening_.....19
+
+SUMMER:
+
+_The Consummation_.....51
+
+AUTUMN:
+
+_The Waning_.....91
+
+WINTER:
+
+_The Sleep_.....125
+
+
+
+
+ILLUSTRATIONS.
+
+DESIGNED BY W. HAMILTON GIBSON.
+
+
+TITLE.                        ENGRAVER.....PAGE
+
+THE KINDLED FLAME             W. H. CLARK.....18
+
+THE AWAKENING                 H. GRAY.....19
+
+A SPRING MORNING              F. S. KING.....21
+
+CATKINS                       JOHN FILMER.....23
+
+PUSSIES                         "      ".....23
+
+EARLY PLOUGHING               H. WOLF.....25
+
+THE RETURN FROM THE FIELDS    GEORGE SMITH.....26
+
+VOICES OF THE NIGHT           JOHN FILMER.....27
+
+A RAINY DAY                   J. HELLAWELL.....29
+
+A HANDFUL FROM THE WOODS      H. GRAY.....32
+
+AFTER ARBUTUS                 J. TINKEY.....34
+
+THE FAIRY FROND               J. P. DAVIS.....35
+
+AN APRIL DAY                  GEORGE SMITH.....36
+
+AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS        SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....37
+
+THE COLUMBINE                 R. HOSKIN.....38
+
+THE MEADOW BROOK              "     ".....40
+
+THE PHOEBE'S NEST             W. H. MORSE.....41
+
+BUILDING THE NEST             HENRY MARSH.....42
+
+IN THE APPLE ORCHARD          R. HOSKIN.....43
+
+LITTLE PLUNDERERS             A. HAYMAN.....45
+
+ONE OF NATURE'S MARVELS       H. MARSH.....46
+
+BLUE-FLAGS                    R. HOSKIN.....47
+
+THE CONSUMING FLAME           W. H. CLARK.....50
+
+THE CONSUMMATION              N. ORR.....51
+
+DOLCE FAR NIENTE              F. S. KING.....55
+
+THE OLD GARRET                F. JUENGLING.....56
+
+AMID THE GRASSES              F. S. KING.....58
+
+EVEN-TIDE                     G. KRUELL.....60
+
+THROUGH THE SEDGES            R. HOSKIN.....62
+
+AMONG THE BOGS                J. TINKEY.....63
+
+SOME ART CONNOISSEURS         R. HOSKIN.....64
+
+PROFESSOR WIGGLER             J. FILMER.....65
+
+THE TYRANT OF THE FIELDS      H. E. SCHULTZ.....67
+
+FAMILIAR FACES AT THE
+VILLAGE STORE                 R. A. MULLER.....70
+
+A SOUVENIR                    SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....72
+
+ALONG THE HOUSATONIC          GEORGE SMITH.....74
+
+JUDD'S BRIDGE                 P. ANNIN.....78
+
+THE HAUNTED MILL              J. HELLAWELL.....79
+
+PURSUERS AND PURSUED          GEORGE ANDREW.....81
+
+TOLLING FOR THE DEAD          R. SCHELLING.....83
+
+WRECKS OF THE TORNADO         J. FILMER.....84
+
+PASSING THOUGHTS              H. GRAY.....86
+
+THE SMOULDERING FLAME         "   ".....90
+
+THE WANING                    A. HAYMAN.....91
+
+"EVERY BREEZE A SIGH"         F. S. KING.....93
+
+AN OCTOBER DAY                SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....96
+
+A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL           J. HELLAWELL.....97
+
+WAIFS                         HENRY MARSH.....100
+
+IN THE CORNFIELD              W. MILLER.....102
+
+THE ROAD TO THE MILL          E. HELD.....105
+
+THE CIDER-MILL                J. P. DAVIS.....107
+
+THE "LINE STORM"              R. HOSKIN.....109
+
+A POINTED REMINDER            J. FILMER.....111
+
+AFTER THE SHELL-BARKS         GEORGE SMITH.....113
+
+A CORNER OF THE FARM          J. TINKEY.....115
+
+BEECH-NUTTING                 W. H. MORSE.....118
+
+THE NORTH WIND                MORSE and HOSKIN.....120
+
+DESERTED                      HENRY DEIS.....121
+
+THE FLAME EXTINGUISHED        H. GRAY.....124
+
+THE SLEEP                     J. TINKEY.....125
+
+THE TOMB                      J. P. DAVIS.....127
+
+SNOW-FLAKES OF MEMORY         GEORGE SMITH.....129
+
+THE OLD MILL-POND             H. GRAY.....131
+
+THE FIRST SNOW                GEORGE SMITH.....133
+
+MUTE PROPHECIES               H. E. SCHULTZ.....135
+
+THE TWITCH-UP                 F. S. KING.....137
+
+THE WINTER'S DARLING          HENRY MARSH.....139
+
+WHO'S THAT?                   H. WOLF.....140
+
+SUNSHINE AND SHADOW IN THE
+WOODS                         R. HOSKIN.....141
+
+A SUNNY CORNER                W. H. MORSE.....143
+
+WINTER BROWSING               SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....144
+
+A JANUARY THAW                J. FILMER.....145
+
+THE MOONLIGHT RIDE            J. HELLAWELL.....147
+
+THE SHADOWED PAGE             J. TINKEY.....149
+
+THE GOOD PHYSICIAN            R. SCHELLING.....151
+
+THE FULFILMENT                SMITHWICK and FRENCH.....153
+
+
+
+
+SPRING.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: THE AWAKENING]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+As far as the eye can reach, the snow lies in a deep mantle over the
+cheerless landscape. I look out upon a dreary moor, where the horizon
+melts into the cold gray of a heavy sky. The restless wind sweeps with
+pitiless blast through shivering trees and over bleak hills, from whose
+crests, like a great white veil, the clouds of hoary flakes are lifted
+and drawn along by the gale. Down the upland slope, across the
+undulating field, the blinding drift, like a thing of life, speeds in
+its wild caprice, now swirling in fantastic eddies around some isolated
+stack, half hidden in its chill embrace, now winding away over
+bare-blown wall and scraggy fence, and through the sighing willows near
+the frozen stream; now with a wild whirl it flies aloft, and the dark
+pines and hemlocks on the mountain-side fade away in its icy mist.
+Again, yonder it appears trailing along the meadow, until, flying like
+some fugitive spirit chased from earth by the howling wind, it vanishes
+in the sky. On every side these winged phantoms lead their flying chase
+across the dreary landscape, and fence and barn and house upon the hill
+in turn are dimmed or lost to sight.
+
+Who has not watched the strange antics of the drifting snow whirling
+past the window on a blustering winter's day? But this is not a winter's
+day. This is the advent of a New England spring.
+
+Fortunate are we that its promises are not fulfilled, for the ides of
+March might as oft betoken the approach of a tempestuous winter as of a
+balmy spring. Consecrated to Mars and Tantalus, it is a month of
+contradictions and disappointments, of broken promises and incessant
+warfare. It is the struggle of tender awakening life against the
+buffetings of rude and blighting elements. No man can tell what a day
+may bring forth. Now we look out verily upon bleak December;
+to-morrow--who knows?--we may be transported into May, and, with
+aspirations high, feel our ardor cooled by a blast of ice and a blinding
+fall of snow. But this cannot always last, for soon the southern breezes
+come and hold their sway for days, and the north wind, angry in its
+defeat, is driven back in lowering clouds to the region of eternal ice
+and snow. Then comes a lovely day, without even a cloud--all blue above,
+all dazzling white below. The sun shines with a glowing warmth, and we
+say unto ourselves, "This is, indeed, a harbinger of spring." The
+sugar-maples throb and trickle with the flowing sap, and the lumbering
+ox-team and sled wind through the woods from tree to tree to relieve the
+overflowing buckets. The boiling caldron in the sugar-house near by
+receives the continual supply, and gives forth that sweet-scented steam
+that issues from the open door, and comes to us in occasional welcome
+whiffs across the snow. Long "wedges" of wild-geese are seen cleaving
+the sky in their northward flight. The little pussies on the willows
+are coaxed from their winter nest, and creep out upon the stem. The
+solitary bluebird makes his appearance, flitting along the thickets and
+stone walls with little hesitating warble, as if it were not yet the
+appointed time to sing; and down among the bogs, that cautious little
+pioneer, the swamp-cabbage flower, peers above the ground beneath his
+purple-spotted hood. He knows the fickle month which gives him birth,
+and keeps well under cover.
+
+[Illustration: CATKINS.]
+
+[Illustration: PUSSIES.]
+
+Such days in March are too perfect to endure, and at night the sky is
+overcast and dark. Then follows a long warm rain that unlocks the ice in
+all the streams. The whiteness of the hills and meadows melts into broad
+contracting strips and patches. One by one, as mere specks upon the
+landscape, these vanish in turn, until the last vestige of winter is
+washed from the face of the earth to swell the tide of the rushing
+stream. Even now, from the distant valley, we hear a continuous muffled
+roar, as the mighty freshet, impelled by an irresistible force, ploughs
+its tortuous channel through the lowlands and ravines. The quiet town is
+filled with an unusual commotion. Excited groups of towns-people crowd
+the village store, and eager voices tell of the havoc wrought by the
+fearful flood. We hear how the old toll-bridge, with tollman's house and
+all, was lifted from its piers like a pile of straw, and whirled away
+upon the current. How its floating timbers, in a great blockade, crushed
+into the old mill-pond; how the dam had burst, and the rickety red
+saw-mill gone to pieces down the stream. Farmer Nathan's barn had gone,
+and his flat meadows were like a whirling sea, strewn with floating
+rails and driftwood. Every hour records its new disaster as some eager
+messenger returns from the excited crowds which line the river-bank. How
+well I remember the fascinating excitement of the spring freshet as I
+watched the rising water in the big swamp lot, anxious lest it might
+creep up and undermine the wall foundations of the barn! And what a
+royal raft I made from the drifting logs and beams, and with the spirit
+of an adventurous explorer sailed out on the deep gliding current,
+floating high among the branches of the half submerged willow-trees, and
+scraping over the tips of the tallest alder-bushes, whose highest twigs
+now hardly reached the surface! How deep and dark the water looked as I
+lay upon the raft and peered into the depths below! But this jolly fun
+was of but short duration. The flood soon subsided, and on the following
+morning nothing was seen excepting the settlings of _debris_ strewn
+helter-skelter over the meadow, and hanging on all the bushes.
+
+The tepid rain has penetrated deep into the yielding ground, and with
+the winter's frost now coming to the surface, the roads are well-nigh
+impassable with their plethora of mud. For a full appreciation of _mud_
+in all its glory, and in its superlative degree, one should see a New
+England highway "when the frost comes out of the ground." The roads are
+furrowed with deep grimy ruts, in which the bedabbled wheels sink to
+their hubs as in a quicksand, and the hoofs of the floundering horse are
+held in the swampy depths as if in a vise. For a week or more this state
+of things continues, until at length, after warm winds and sunny days,
+the ground once more packs firm beneath the tread. This marks the close
+of idle days. The junk pile in the barn is invaded, and the rusty plough
+abstracted from the midst of rakes and scythes and other farming tools.
+The old white horse thrusts his long head from the stall near by, and
+whinnies at the memories it revives, and with pricked-up ears and
+whisking tail tells plainly of the eagerness he feels.
+
+[Illustration: EARLY PLOUGHING.]
+
+Back and forth through the sloping lot the ploughman slowly turns the
+dingy sward, and in the rich brown furrow, following in his track, we
+see the cackling troop of hens, and the lordly rooster, with great ado,
+searches out the dainty tidbits for his motley crowd of favorites. The
+whole landscape has become infused with human life and motion. Wherever
+the eye may turn it sees the evidences of varied and hopeful industry.
+Yonder we notice an oft-recurring little puff of mist, like a burlesque
+snow-drift, ever and anon bursting into view, and softly vanishing
+against the sward; another glance detects the slow progress of horse and
+cart, as the farmer sows his load of plaster across the whitening field.
+Farther up, where the brow of the hill stands clear against the sky, a
+pacing figure, with measured sweep of arm, scatters the handfuls of
+wheat, and team and harrow soon are in his path, combing and crumbling
+the dark-brown mould. High curling wreaths of smoke wind upward from the
+flat swamp lot beyond, where hilarious boys enjoy both work and play in
+burning off the brush. Here we shall see the first welcome nibble of
+fresh grass for the poor bereaved cow, whose lamenting bleat now echoes
+through the barn near by; and for those oxen, too, that with swaying,
+clumsy gait lug the huge roller across the neighboring field. And what
+strange yells and exclamations guide them in their labored progress! "Ho
+back! Gee up, ahoy! Ho haw!" From every direction, in voices near, and
+others faint with distance, we hear this same queer jargon. Who could
+believe that so much good work hung upon the incessant reiteration of
+that brief and monotonous vocabulary? Rather would we listen to the
+musical ring of the laughing children riding on the big "brush harrow"
+down through that barn-yard lane beyond. Now they are out upon the
+broken ground where John has strewn the "compost" to be "brushed in." A
+broad flat wake follows them around the field, and that same troop of
+hens and turkeys revel in the lively feast spread out before them in the
+loose upturning.
+
+[Illustration: RETURN FROM THE FIELDS.]
+
+[Illustration: VOICES OF THE NIGHT.]
+
+So runs the record of a busy day in the early New England springtime,
+and with its all-absorbing industry it is a day that passes quickly. The
+afternoon runs into evening. Cool shadows creep across the landscape as
+the glowing sun sinks through the still bare and leafless trees and
+disappears behind the wooded hills. The fields are now deserted, and
+through the uncertain twilight we see the little knots of workmen with
+their swinging pails, and hear their tramp along the homeward road. In
+the dim shadows of the evergreens beyond, a faint gray object steals
+into view. Now it stops at the old watering-trough, and I hear the sip
+of the eager horse and the splash of overflowing water. Some belated
+ploughman, fresh, perhaps, from a half-hour's gossip at the village
+store. I hear the sound of hoofs upon the stones as they renew their
+way, the dragging of the chain upon the gravelly bed, and the receding
+form is lost in the darkening road. One by one the scattered barns and
+houses have disappeared in the gathering dusk, marked only by the faint
+columns of blue smoke that rise above the trees, and melt away against
+the twilight sky. I look out upon a wilderness of gloom, where all above
+is still and clear, and all below is wrapped in impenetrable mystery. A
+plaintive piping trill now breaks the impressive stillness. Again and
+again I hear the little lonely voice vibrating through the low-lying
+mist. It is only a little frog in some far-off marsh; but what a sweet
+sense of sadness is awakened by that lowly melody! How its weird minor
+key, with its magic touch, unlocks the treasures of the heart. Only the
+peeping of a frog; but where in all the varied voices of the night,
+where, even among the great chorus of nature's sweetest music, is there
+another song so lulling in its dreamy melody, so full of that emotive
+charm which quickens the human heart? How often in the vague spring
+twilight have I yielded to the strange, fascinating melancholy awakened
+by the frog's low murmur at the water's edge! How many times have I
+lingered near some swampy roadside bog, and let these little wizards
+weave their mystic spell about my willing senses, while the very air
+seemed to quiver in the fulness of their song! I remember the tangle of
+tall and withered rushes, through whose mysterious depths the eye in
+vain would strive to penetrate at the sound of some faint splash or
+ripple, or perhaps at the quaint, high-keyed note of some little
+isolated hermit, piping in his sombre solitude. I recall the first
+glimpse of the rising moon, as its great golden face peered out at me
+from over the distant hill, enclosing half the summit against its broad
+and luminous surface. Slowly and steadily it seemed to steal into view,
+until, risen in all its fulness, I caught its image in the trembling
+ripples at the edge of the soggy pool, where the palpitating water
+responded to the frog's low, tremulous monotone. Higher and higher it
+sails across the inky sky, its glow now changed to a silvery pallor,
+across whose white halo, in a floating film, the ghostly clouds glide in
+their silent flight. A dull tinkling of some distant cow-bell breaks
+the spell, and recalls my wandering thoughts, and as I again take up my
+way along the moonlit road, the glimmering windows on right and left
+betray the hiding-places of a score of humble homes. Not far beyond I
+see the swinging motion of a flickering lantern, as some tardy farmer's
+boy, whistling about his work, clears up his nightly chores. Now he
+enters the old barn-door. I see the light glinting through the open
+cracks, and hear the lowing of the cows, the bleating of the baby-calf,
+and rattling chains of oxen in the stanchion rows. Now again I catch the
+gleam at the open door; the swinging light flits across the yard, and
+the old corn-crib starts from its obscurity. I see the boyish figure
+relieved against the glow within as a basketful of yellow ears are
+gathered for the impatient mouths in the noisy manger stalls. Sing on,
+my boy, enjoy it while you may! That venerable barn will yield a
+fragrance to you in after-life that will conjure up in your heart a
+throng of memories as countless as the shining grains that glimmer in
+the light you hold, and as golden, too, as they. I wonder if those
+soft-winged bats squeak among the clapboards, or make their fluttering
+zigzag swoops about your lantern as they were wont to do in olden times.
+
+Then there was that big-eyed owl, too, that perched upon the maple-tree
+outside my window, and cried as if its heart would break at the doleful
+tidings it foretold. What a world of kind solicitude that dolorous bird
+awakened in our superstitious neighbor across the road! How she
+overwhelmed us with her sympathy, aroused by that sepulchral omen! But I
+still live, and so does the owl, for aught I know; and I sometimes think
+that this aged, stooping dame over the way has never fully recovered
+from her disappointment, for she always greets me with a sigh and an
+injured expression, as she says, in her high and tremulous voice, "Well!
+well! back agin ez hale 'n hearty 's ever; an' arter the way thet ar
+witch bird yewst teu call ye, too, night arter night. Jest teu _think_
+on't! an' we'd all a' gi'n ye up fer sartin. Well! well! I never see the
+beat on't. Yen deu seem teu hang on _paowerful_;" and, after a moment's
+hesitation, seemingly in which to swallow the bitter pill, she usually
+adds, with sad solicitude, "Feelin' perty _tol'ble teu_, I spose?" But
+the "witch bird" never roused my serious apprehensions. I remember its
+plaintive cry only as a tender bit of pathos in the pages of my early
+history.
+
+[Illustration: A RAINY DAY.]
+
+I recall, too, the pleasant sound upon the shingles overhead as the
+dark-clouded sky let fall its tell-tale drops to warn us of the coming
+rain. How many times have I glided into dream-land under the drowsy
+influence of the patter on the roof, and the ever varying tattoo upon
+the tin beneath the dripping eaves! Who can forget those rainy days,
+with their games of hide-and-seek in the old dark garret! How we looked
+out upon the muddy puddled road, and laughed at the great drifting
+sheets of water that ever and anon poured down from some bursting cloud,
+and roared upon the roof! And as the driving rain beat against the
+blurred window-panes, what strange capers the squirming tree-trunks
+outside seemed to play for our amusement: the dark door-way of the barn,
+too--now swelling out to twice its size, now stretching long and thin,
+or dividing in the middle in its queer contortions. Out in the dismal
+barn-yard we saw the forlorn row of hens huddled together on the
+hay-rick, under the drizzling straw-thatched shed; and the gabled coop
+near by, in whose dry retreat the motherly old hen spread her tawny
+wings, and yielded the warmth of her ruffled breast to the tender needs
+of her little family, peeping so contentedly beneath her. The rain-proof
+ducks dabble in the neighboring puddles, and chew the muddy water in
+search of floating dainties, or gulp with nodding heads the unlucky
+angle-worms which come struggling to the surface--drowned out of their
+subterranean tunnels.
+
+Now we hear the snapping of the latch at the foot of the garret stairs,
+and we are called to come and see a little outcast that John has brought
+in from the wood-pile. Close beside the kitchen-stove a doubled piece of
+blanket lies upon the floor, and within its folds we find what once was
+a downy little chicken, now drenched and dying from exposure. He was a
+naughty, wayward child, and would persist in thinking that he knew more
+than his mother. At least so I was told--indeed, it was impressed upon
+me. But the little fellow was rescued just in time. The warmth will soon
+revive him, and by-and-by we shall hear his little chirp and see him
+trot around the kitchen-floor, pecking at that everlasting fly, perhaps,
+or at some tiny red-hot coal that snaps out from the stove.
+
+Little did we suspect the mission of those rainy days, so drear and
+dismal without, or the sweet surprise preparing for us in the myriad
+mysteries of life beneath the sod, where every root and thread-like
+rootlet in the thirsty earth was drinking in that welcome moisture, and
+numberless sleeping germs, dwelling in darkness, were awakening into
+life to seek the light of day, waiting only for the glory of a sunny
+dawn to burst forth from their hiding-places! That sunny morn does come
+at last, and in its beams it sheds abroad a power that stirs the deepest
+root. It is, indeed, a glorious day. The clustered buds upon the
+silver-maples burst in their exuberance, and fringe the graceful
+branches with their silken tassels. The restless crocus, for months an
+unwilling captive in its winter prison, can contain itself no longer,
+and with its little overflowing cup lifts up its face to the blue
+heaven. Golden daffodils burst into bloom on drooping stems, and
+exchange their little nods on right and left. The air is filled with a
+faint perfume, in which the very earth mould yields its fragrance--that
+wild aroma only known to spring. Our little feathered friends, so few
+and far between as yet, are full of song. The bluebird wooes his mate
+with a loving warble, full of tender sweetness, as they flit among the
+swaying twigs, or pry with diligent search for some snug nesting-place
+among the hollow crannies of the orchard trees. The noisy blackbirds
+hold high carnival in the top of the old pine-tree, the woodpecker taps
+upon the hollow limb his resonant tattoo, and the hungry crows, like a
+posse of tramps, hang around the great oak-tree upon the knoll, and
+watch to see what they can steal. Down through the meadow the gurgling
+stream babbles as of old, and along its fretted banks the alder thickets
+are hanging full with drooping catkins swinging at every breeze. The
+glossy willow-buds throw off their coat of fur, and plume themselves in
+their wealth of inflorescence, lighting up the brook-side with a yellow
+glow, and exhaling a fresh, delicious perfume. Here, too, we hear the
+rattling screech of the swooping kingfisher, as with quick beats of wing
+he skims along the surface of the stream, and with an ascending glide
+settles upon the overhanging branch above the ripples. All these and a
+thousand more I vividly recall from the memory of that New England
+spring; but sweetest of all its manifold surprises was that crowning
+consummation, that miracle of a single night, bringing on countless
+wings through the early morning mist the welcome chorus of the returning
+flocks of birds. How they swarmed the orchard and the elms, where but
+yesterday the bluebird held his sway! Now we see the fiery oriole in his
+gold and jetty velvet flashing in the morning sun, and robins without
+number swell their ruddy throats in a continuous roundelay of song. The
+pert cat-bird in his Quaker garb is here, and with flippant jerk of tail
+and impertinent mew bustles about among the arbor-vitaes, where even now
+are remnants of his last year's nest. The puffy wrens, too, what saucy,
+sputtering little bursts of glee are theirs as they strut upon the
+rustic boxes in the maples! The fields are vocal with their sweet spring
+medley, in which the happy carols of the linnets and the song sparrows
+form a continuous pastoral. Now we hear the mellow bell of the wood
+thrush echoing from some neighboring tree, and all intermingled with the
+chatter and the gossip of the martens on their lofty house. Birds in the
+sky, birds in the trees and on the ground, birds everywhere, and not a
+silent throat among them; but from far and near, from mountain-side and
+meadow, from earth and sky, uniting in a happy choral of perpetual
+jubilee.
+
+[Illustration: A HANDFUL FROM THE WOODS.]
+
+Down in the moist green swamp lot the yellow cowslips bloom along the
+shallow ditch, and the eager farmer's wife fills her basket with the
+succulent leaves she has been watching for so long; for they'll tell you
+in New England that "they ain't noth'n' like caowslips for a mess o'
+greens." Near by we see the frog pond, with lush growth of arrow leaves
+and pickerel weed, and flat blades of blue-flag just starting from the
+boggy earth. Half submerged upon a lily pad, close by the water's edge,
+an ugly toad sits watching for some winged morsel for that ample mouth
+of his.
+
+Who could believe that so much poetic inspiration could emerge from such
+a mouth as that; for verily it is this miserable-looking toad that lifts
+his little voice in the dreamy, drowsy chorus of the twilight. All sorts
+of odium have been heaped upon the innocent toad; but he only returns
+good for evil. He is the farmer's faithful friend. He guards his garden
+by day, and lulls him to sleep by night. Yonder, near those withered
+cat-tails, we see the village boys among the calamus-beds, pulling up
+the long white roots tipped with pink and fringed with trickling
+rootlets. What visions of candied flag-root stimulate them in their
+zeal! I can almost see the tender, juicy leaf-bud screened beneath that
+smooth pink sheath, and its aromatic pungency is as fresh and real to me
+as this appetizing fragrance that comes to us from the green tufts of
+spearmint we crush beneath our feet at every step. Bevies of swallows
+all around us skim through the air, like feathered darts, in their
+twittering flight; and the restless starling, like a field-marshal, with
+his scarlet epaulets, keeps sharp lookout for the enemy, and "flutes his
+O-ka-lee" from the high alder-bush at the slightest approach upon his
+chosen ground. Yonder on the wooded slope the feathery shad-tree blooms,
+like a suspended cloud of drifting snow lingering among the gray twigs
+and branches; and chasing across the matted leaves beneath, a lively
+troop of youngsters, girls and boys, make the woods resound with their
+boisterous jubilee. A jolly band of fugitives fresh from the stormy
+week's captivity--spring buds bursting with life, with a pent-up store
+of spirits that finds escape in an effervescence of ringing laughs and
+in a din of incessant jabber. Well I know the buoyant exhilaration that
+impels them on in their reckless frolic, as they skip from stone to
+stone across the rippling stream, or "stump" each other on the
+treacherous crossing-pole which spans the deep still current! Now I see
+them huddle around the trickling grotto among the mossy bowlders in the
+steep gully yonder, where the mountain spring bubbles into a crystal
+pool. Alas! how quickly its faint blue border of hepaticas is rifled by
+the ruthless mob! Now they clamber up the great gray rocks beneath the
+drooping hemlocks, stopping in their headlong zeal to snatch some
+trembling cluster of anemone, nodding from its velvety bed of moss; now
+plunging down on hands and knees, shedding innocent blood among an
+unsuspecting colony of fragile bloom--those glowing blossoms so welcome
+in the early spring! Who does not know the bloodroot--that shy recluse
+hiding away among the mountain nooks, that emblem of chaste purity with
+its bridal ring of purest gold? Who has not seen its tender leaf-wrapped
+buds lifting the matted leaves, and spreading their galaxy of snowy
+stars along the woodland path?
+
+Then there was the shy arbutus, too. Where in all the world's bouquet is
+there another such a darling of a flower? And where in all New England
+does that darling show so full and sweet a face as in its home upon that
+sunny slope I have in mind, and know so well? Was ever such a fragrant
+tufted carpet spread beneath a hesitating foot? Even now, along the
+lichen-dappled wall upon the summit, I see the lingering strip of snow,
+gritty and speckled, and at its very edge, hiding beneath the covering
+leaves, those modest little faces looking out at me--faces which seemed
+to blush a deeper pink at their rude discovery. No other flower can
+breathe the perfume of the arbutus, that earthy, spicy fragrance, which
+seems as though distilled from the very leaf-mould at its roots. Often
+on this sunny slope, so sheltered by dense pines and hemlocks, have
+these charming clusters, pink and white, burst into bloom beneath the
+snow in March; and even on a certain late February day, we discovered a
+little, solitary clump, fully spread, and fairly ruddy with the cold.
+Here, too, we found the earliest sprays of the slender maidenhair; that
+fairy frond and loveliest among ferns, with black and lustrous stems,
+and graceful spread of tender gauzy green.
+
+[Illustration: AFTER ARBUTUS.]
+
+Where was the nook in all that hill-side woods that we left unsearched
+in our April ramblings? I recall the "tat," "tat" upon the dry carpet of
+beech leaves, as the delicate anemone in my hand is dashed by a falling
+drop! Lost in eager occupation, we had not observed the shadow that had
+stolen through the forest; and now, as we look out through the trees, we
+see the steel-blue warning of the coming shower, and feel the first gust
+of the tell-tale breeze--how the willows wave and gleam against the deep
+gray clouds, so weirdly reflected in the gliding stream beneath, like an
+open seam to another sky! See the silvery flashes of that flock of
+pigeons circling against the lurid background. No, we cannot stop to
+see them, for the rain-drops begin to patter thick and fast. Away we
+scamper to the shelter of the overhanging rocks. The lowering sky rolls
+above us through the branches. The glassy surface of the brook takes on
+a leaden hue as the rain-cloud drags its misty veil across the distant
+meadows. The brown leaves jump and spatter at my feet, and the blue
+liverwort flowers on right and left duck their heads like little living
+things dodging the pelting rain-drops.
+
+[Illustration: THE FAIRY FROND.]
+
+Oh, the lovely fickleness an April day! Even now the distant hill is lit
+up by the bursting sun. Nearer and nearer the gleam creeps across the
+landscape, chasing the shower away, and in a moment more the meadows
+glow with a freshened green, and the trees stand transfigured in
+glistening beads flashing in the sunbeams. The quickened earth gives
+forth its grateful incense, and even an enthusiastic frog down in the
+lily-pond sends up his little vote of thanks.
+
+[Illustration: AN APRIL DAY.]
+
+April's woods are teeming with all forms of life, if one will only look
+for them. On every side the ferns, curled up all winter in their dormant
+sleep, unroll their spiral sprays, and reach out for the welcome sun.
+The spicy colt's-foot, or wild ginger, lifts its downy leaves among the
+mossy rocks and crevices, and its homely flower just peeps above the
+ground, and, with a lingering glance at the blushing _Rue anemone_ close
+by, hangs its humble head, never to look up again. High above us the
+eccentric cottonwood-tree dangles its long speckled plumes, so silvery
+white. Now we hear a mellow drumming sound, as some unsuspecting grouse,
+concealed among the undergrowth near by, beats his resonant breast.
+Could we but get a glimpse of him, we would see him simulate the
+barn-yard gobbler, as with proud strut and spreading tail he disports
+himself upon some fallen log or mossy rock. Perhaps, too, that coy mate
+is near, admiring his show of gallantry, and holding a sly flirtation.
+
+[Illustration: AMONG THE WILD FLOWERS.]
+
+Look at this craggy precipice of rock, lost above among the
+green-tasselled evergreens, and trickling with crystal drops from every
+drooping sprig of moss. How its rugged surface is painted with the
+mottled lichens of every hue, here like a faint tinge of cool
+sage-green, and there in large brown blotches of rich color! See the
+fringe of ferns that bursts from the fissure across its surface. There
+the trillium hangs its three-cleft flower of rich maroon; and later we
+shall see the fern-like spray of Solomon's-seal swinging its little row
+of straw-colored bells from the ledge above. Airy columbines, too, shall
+float their scarlet pendants on fragile stems, and with their graceful
+nod tell of the slightest breeze, when all else is still. What is that
+cinnamon-brown bird that hops along the stone wall yonder? Now he
+alights upon the tulip-tree, and swells his speckled breast in a series
+of short experiments--a broken song, in which every note or call has
+its twin echo. A "mocking-thrush" he is, indeed, for he mimics his own
+song from morn till night in all the thickets and pasture-lands. Take
+care there! why, you almost trod upon that feathery tuft of "Dutchman's
+breeches." Oh, who is he that dared to clothe this sweet blossom in such
+an ignominious title? Where is the Dutchman that ever wore
+unmentionables of such exquisite pink satin as that pale _dicentra_
+wears? No wonder their little broken hearts droop at the insult!
+
+[Illustration: THE COLUMBINE.]
+
+The grotesque Jack-in-the-pulpit, rising above that crumbling log, is
+named more to my mind. There he stands beneath his striped canopy, and
+preaches to me a sermon on the well-remembered rashness of my youth in
+trifling with that subterranean bulb from which he grows. But I ignored
+his warning in those early days. I only knew that a real nice boy across
+the way seemed very fond of those little Indian turnips, called them
+"sugar-roots," and said that they were full of honey. And as he bit off
+his eager mouthful, and refused to let me taste, I sought one for
+myself, and, generous boy that he was, he showed me where to find the
+buried treasure. It was like a small turnip, an innocent-looking affair
+(and so was the nice boy's modelled piece of apple, by-the-way). But oh!
+the sudden revelation of the red-hot reservoir of chain-lightning that
+crammed that innocent bulb! Even as I think of it, how I long once more
+to interview that real nice boy who opened up the mysteries of the
+"sugar-root" to my tempted curiosity. Let boys beware of this wild,
+red-hot coal; and should they be impelled by a desire to test the
+unknown flavor, let them solace themselves with a less dangerous mixture
+of four papers of cambric needles and a spoonful of pounded glass. This
+will give a faint suggestion of the racy pungency of the Indian turnip.
+Were some kind friend at the present day to seek to kill me off with
+poisoned food, I should forthwith have him arrested on a charge of
+attempted murder, and incarcerated in the county jail. But what would be
+wilful homicide in the man is only a guileless proof of friendship in
+the boy, and his affections and their symptoms present a living paradox;
+and those boisterous days, with all their fond caresses in the way of
+fights and bruises and black eyes, and even Indian turnips, we all agree
+were full of fun the like of which we never shall see again.
+
+[Illustration: MEADOW BROOK.]
+
+How well we remember those tramps along the meadow brook: the dark,
+still holes beneath the overhanging rocks, where, with golden slipping
+loop and pole and cautious creep, we wired those lazy, unsuspecting
+"suckers" on the gravelly bed below! Ah! what scientific angling with
+the rod and reel in later years has ever brought back the keen tingle of
+that primitive sport? The great green bull-frogs, too, in the lily-pond,
+disclosing their cavernous resources as they jumped and splashed and
+sprawled after the tantalizing bit of red flannel on that dangling hook!
+We recall that rickety bridge among the willows, and the mossy nest of
+mud so firmly fixed upon the beam beneath. How could we be so deaf to
+the pleading of those little phoebe-birds that fluttered so beseechingly
+about us? Then there was that deep hole in the sand-bank near the
+brook, where the burrowing kingfisher hid away his nest, where we
+watched in the twilight to see him enter, and, with big round stone in
+readiness, "plugged" him in his den! What fun it was to dig him out, and
+ventilate his musty nest of fish-bones! The starling in the thicket of
+the swamp circled through the air with angry "Quit! quit!" as we picked
+our way through the bristling bogs so close upon her nest. We'll not
+forget that false step that sent us sprawling in the green slimy mud, at
+the first electrifying glimpse of those brown spotted eggs. The
+high-holer, too, whose golden gleam of wing upon the bare dead tree
+betrayed his nesting-place in the hollow limb--was ever such a stimulus
+offered to the eagerness of youth? Who would give a second thought to
+his tender shins at the prospect of such a prize as a nest of
+high-hole's eggs? How round and white they were! how the pale golden
+yolk floated beneath the pearly shell! Those were jolly days for us; but
+the poor birds had to suffer, and few, indeed, were the nests that
+escaped our prying search. There was the cat-bird in the evergreens,
+with lovely eggs of peacock blue; the pure white treasures of the
+swallows in the mud nests under the barn-yard eaves; the sky-blue
+beauties of the robin; the brown speckled eggs in the sheltered nest of
+song-sparrows on the grassy slope; the dear little eggs of chippies in
+their horse-hair bed, and in their midst the insinuated specimen of the
+cheeky cow-blackbird: there were eggs of every shape and hue, and we
+knew too well where to put our hand on them.
+
+[Illustration: THE PHOEBE'S NEST.]
+
+[Illustration: BUILDING THE NEST.]
+
+In a flowering hawthorn outside our window we watched a loving pair
+building their pensile nest among the thorns and blossoms. How incessant
+was their solicitude for that fragile framework until its strength was
+fully assured against the tossing breeze! Tenderly and eagerly they
+helped each other in the disposition of those ravellings of string and
+strips of bark! he stopping every now and then to whisper sweetly to his
+mate, as she, with drooping, trembling wings, put up her little open
+bill to kiss. Yes, we often saw this little tender episode, as we
+watched them through the shutters of the half-closed blinds! Now he
+flies away; and the little spouse, thus left alone, jumps into the nest,
+and we see its mossy meshes swell as she fits the deep hollow to her
+feathery breast. Presently her consort returns, trailing along a
+gossamer of cobweb, which he throws around the supporting thorn, and
+leaves for her to spread and tuck among the crevices. Again he appears,
+with his tiny bill concealed in a silvery puff of cotton from the willow
+catkins in the swamp; next he brings a wisp of long gray moss; now a
+curly flake of rich brown lichen, or a jagged square of birch bark, all
+of which are laid against the nest, and half covered with films of
+cobweb. Once more we see his tiny form among the hawthorn blossoms as he
+tugs a papery piece of hornets' nest through the pink barricade. This is
+arranged to hang beneath as a pendant to their floating fabric, and the
+happy little couple sit together upon a neighboring twig in twittering
+admiration. And well they may, for a prettier nest than theirs never
+hung upon a thorn. Not perfect yet, it seems, however, for that little
+feminine eye has seen the need of one more touch. Away she flies, and in
+a minute more a downy feather, tipped with iridescent green, is adjusted
+in the cobwebs.
+
+[Illustration: IN THE APPLE ORCHARD.]
+
+This dainty little work of art is only one of the thousands that
+everywhere are building in the blooming trees and thickets. These are
+the supreme moments of the spring, consecrated to the loves of bird and
+blossom. Every little winged form that scarcely bends the twig has its
+all-consuming passion, and every tree its wedding of the flower. Out in
+the orchard the apple-trees are laden in veritable domes of pink-white
+bloom, as if by the rare spectacle of a rosy fall of snow, and from
+among the dewy petals the army of bees give forth their low, continuous
+drone--that sympathetic chord in the universal harmony of spring. How
+they revel in that rich harvest! Who knows what sweet messages are borne
+from flower to flower upon those filmy wings?
+
+On the green slope beneath, the scattered dandelions gleam like drops of
+molten gold upon the velvety sward, and a lounging family group, intent
+upon that savory noonday relish, gather the basketfuls of the dainty
+plants for that appetizing "mess of greens." Often, while thus engaged,
+have I stopped to watch the antics of the festive bumblebee, tumbling
+around in the tufted blossom--always an amusing sight. See how he rolls
+and wallows in the golden fringe, even standing on his head and kicking
+in his glee! Presently, with his long black nose thrust deep into the
+yellow puff, he stops to enjoy a quiet snooze in the luxurious bed--an
+endless sleep, for I generally took this chance to put him out of his
+misery, preferring, perhaps, to watch the robin hopping across the lawn.
+Now he stops, and seems to listen; runs a yard or so, and listens again,
+and without a sign of warning dips his head, and pulls upon an unlucky
+angle-worm that much prefers to go the other way. It is a well-known
+fact that angle-worms approach the surface of their burrows at the sound
+of rain-drops on the earth above. I sometimes wonder if the robin in its
+quick running stroke of foot intends to simulate that sound, and thus
+decoy its prey.
+
+I remember the wild tumult of a troop of boys upon the hill-side,
+tracking the swarming bees as they whirled along in a living tangle
+against the sky, now loosening in their dizzy meshes, now contracting in
+a murmuring hum around their queen, and finally settling on a branch in
+a pendent bunch about her. So tame and docile, too! seeming utterly to
+forget their fiery javelins as they hung in that brown filmy mass upon
+the bending bough! "A swarm of bees in May iz wuth a load o' hay." So
+said our neighbor, as with fresh clean hive he secured that prized
+equivalent. Here they are soon at home again, and we see their steady
+winged stream pouring out through the little door of their
+treasure-house, and the continual arrival of the little dusty
+plunderers, laden with their smuggled store of honey, and their
+saddle-bags replete with stolen gold. Down near the brook they find a
+land of plenty, literally flowing with honey, as the luxuriant drooping
+clusters of the locust-trees yield their brimful nectaries to the
+impetuous, murmuring swarm. But there is no lack now of flowery sweets
+for this buzzing colony. On every hand the meadow-sweets and milkweeds,
+the brambles, and the fragrant creeping-clover show their alluring
+colors in the universal burst of bloom, and not one escapes its tender
+pillaging.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Up in the woods the gray has turned to tender green. The flowering
+dog-wood has spread its layers of creamy blossoms, giving the signal for
+the planting of the corn, and in the furrowed field we see that
+dislocated "man of straw," with old plug hat jammed down upon his face,
+with wooden backbone sticking through his neck-band, and dirty thatch
+for a shirt bosom--a mocking outrage on any crow's sagacity. Those
+glittering strips of tin, too! Could you but interpret the low croaking
+of the leader of that sable gang in yonder tree, you might hear of the
+appalling effect of these precautions. I heard him once as I sat quietly
+beneath a forest tree, and in the light of later events I readily
+recalled his remarks upon the occasion: "Say, fellers! look at that old
+fool down there hanging out those tins to show us where his corn is
+planted. Haw! haw! I swaw! cawn! cawn! we'll go down thaw and take a
+chaw!" And they did; and they perched upon that old plug hat, and looked
+around for something to get scared about. A single look at a crow shows
+that he has a long head, and it is not all mouth either.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: BLUE-FLAGS.]
+
+Every day now makes a transformation in the landscape. The golden stars
+upon the lawn are nearly all burnt out: we see their downy ashes in the
+grass. Their virgin flame is quenched, and naught remains but those
+ethereal globes of smoke that rise up and float away with every breeze.
+Where is there in all nature's marvels a more exquisite creation than
+this evanescent phoenix of the dandelion? Beautiful in life, it is
+even more beautiful in death. And now the high-grown grass is cloudy
+with its puffs, whose little fairy parachutes are sailing everywhere,
+over mountain-top and field. Here the corn has appeared in little waving
+plumes, and the horse and cultivator are seen breaking up the soil
+between the rows. Great snowy piles of cloud throw their gliding shadows
+across the patchwork of ploughed fields and meadows, fresh and green
+with winter wheat, or tinged with newly sprouting grain. The sunbeams
+glow with a summer warmth, and the evaporation of the morning dews lifts
+the glistening diamonds from the gossamer films among the grass, and
+sends a quivering haze all through the air, in which the distant trees
+tremble in a softened glimmer. The woods are screened in dense foliage,
+and through the leafy canopy the merry birds dart and sing.
+
+The chickadees are here, and scarlet tanagers gleam like living bits of
+fire among the tantalizing leaves. Pert little vireos hop inquisitively
+about you, and the bell note of the wood-thrush echoes from the hidden
+tree-top overhead. Perhaps, too, you may chance upon a downy brood of
+quail cuddling among the dry leaves; but, even though you should, you
+might pass them by unnoticed, except as a mildewed spot of fungus at the
+edge of a fallen log or tree-stump, perhaps. The loamy ground is shaded
+knee-deep with rank growth of wood plants. The mossy, speckled rock is
+set in a fringe of ferns. Palmate sprays of ginseng spread in mid-air a
+luxurious carpet of intermingled leaves, interspersed with yellow spikes
+of loosestrife and pale lilac blooms of crane's-bill; and the
+poison-ivy, creeping like a snake around that marbled beech, has
+screened its hairy trunk beneath its three-cleft shiny leaves. The
+mountain-laurel, with its deep green foliage and showy clusters, peers
+above that rocky crag; and in the bog near by a thicket of wild azalea
+is crowned with a profusion of pink blossoms.
+
+Out in the swamp meadow the tall clumps of boneset show their dull white
+crests, and the blue flowers of the flag, the mint, and pickerel weed
+deck the borders of the lily pond. The waddling geese let off their
+shrieking calliopes as they sail out into the stream, or browse with
+nodding twitch along the grassy bank. Swarms of yellow butterflies
+disgrace their kind as they huddle around the greenish mud-holes, and we
+hear on every side the "z-zip, z-zip," amidst the din of a thousand
+crickets and singing locusts among the reeds and rushes. The meadows
+roll and swell in billowy waves, bearing like a white-speckled foam upon
+their crests a sea of daisies, with here and there a floating patch of
+crimson clover, or a golden haze of butter-cups. Rising suddenly from
+the tall grass near by, the gushing brimful bobolink crowds a
+half-hour's song into a brief pell-mell rapture, beating time in mid-air
+with his trembling wings, and alighting on the tall fence-rail to regain
+his breath. A coy meadow-lark shows his yellow-breast and crescent above
+the windrow yonder, and we hear the ringing beats of whetted scythes,
+and see the mowers cut their circling swath.
+
+Mowing! Why, how is this? This surely is not Spring. But even thus the
+Springtime leads us into Summer. No eye can mark the soft transition,
+and ere we are aware the sweet fragrance of the new-mown hay breathes
+its perfumed whisper, "Behold, the Spring has fled!"
+
+
+
+
+SUMMER.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: THE CONSUMMATION]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+"All out for Hometown." There is an epidemic of eagerness, a general
+bustle for satchels and bundles, and the car is soon almost without a
+passenger; and, indeed, it would really seem as though the whole train
+had landed its entire human burden upon this platform; for Hometown is a
+popular place, and every Saturday evening brings just such an exodus as
+this: Husbands and fathers who fly from the hot and crowded city for a
+Sunday of quiet and content with their families, who year after year
+have found a refuge of peace and comfort in this charming New England
+town. Where is it? Talk with almost any one familiar with the
+picturesque boroughs of the Housatonic, and your curiosity will be
+gratified, for this village will be among the first to be described.
+
+From the platform of the car we step into the midst of a motley
+assemblage, rustic peasantry and fashionable aristocracy intermingled.
+Anxious and eager faces meet you at every turn. For a few minutes the
+air fairly rings with kisses, as children welcome fathers, and fathers
+children. Strange vehicles crowd the depot--vehicles of all sizes and
+descriptions, from the veritable "one-hoss shay" to the dainty
+basket-phaeton of fashion. One by one the merry loads depart, while I, a
+pilgrim to my old home, stand almost unrecognized by the familiar faces
+around me. Leaning up against the porch near by, stands a character
+which, once seen, could never be forgotten. His face is turned from me,
+but the old straw hat I recognize as the hat of ten years ago, with brim
+pulled down to a slope in front, and pushed up vertically behind, and
+the identical hole in the side with the long hair sticking through. Yes,
+there he stands--Amos Shoopegg. I step up to him and lay my hand upon
+his shoulder. With creditable skill he unwinds the twist of his
+intricate legs, and with an inquiring gaze turns his good-natured face
+toward me.
+
+"Is it possible that you don't remember me, Shoop?"
+
+With an expression of surprise he raises both his arms. "Wa'al, thar! I
+swaiou! I didn't cal'late on runnin' agin yeu. I was jes drivin' hum
+from taown-meetin', an' thought as haow I'd take a turn in, jest out o'
+cur'osity. Wa'al, naow, it's pesky good to see yeu agin arter sech a
+long spell. I didn't re_cog_nize ye at fust, but I swan when ye began
+a-talkin', that was enuf fer me. Hello! fetched yer woman 'long tew,
+hey? Haow air yeu, ma'am? hope ye'er perty tol'ble. Don't see but what
+yeu look's nateral's ever; but yer man here, I declar for't, he got the
+best on me at fust;" and after having thus delivered himself, he
+swallowed up our hands in his ample fists.
+
+"Yes, Shoop, I thought I'd just run up to the old home for a few days."
+
+"Wa'al, I swar! I'm tarnal glad to see ye, and that's a fact. Anybody
+cum up arter ye? No? Well, then, s'posin' ye jest highst into my team."
+So saying, he unhitched a corrugated shackle-jointed steed, and backed
+around his indescribable impromptu covered wagon--a sort of a hybrid
+between a "one-hoss shay" and a truck.
+
+"'Tain't much of a kerridge fer city folks to ride in, that's a fact,"
+he continued, "but I cal'late it's a little better'n shinnin' it." After
+some little manoeuvring in the way of climbing over the front seat, we
+were soon wedged in the narrow compass, and, with an old horse-blanket
+over our knees, we went rattling down the hill toward the village and
+home of my boyhood.
+
+Years have passed since those days when, as a united family, we dwelt
+under that old roof; but those who once were children are now men and
+women, with divided interests and individual homes. The old New England
+mansion is now a homestead only in name, known so only in recollections
+of the past and the possibilities of the future.
+
+"Wa'al, thar's the old house," presently exclaimed Amos, as we neared
+the brow of a declivity looking down into the valley below. "Don't look
+quite so spruce as't did in the old times, but Warner's a good keerful
+tenant, 'tain't no use talkin'. I cal'late yeu might dig a pleggy long
+spell afore yeu could git another feller like him in this 'ere patch."
+
+In the vale below, in its nest of old maples and elms, almost screened
+from view by the foliage, we look upon the familiar outlines of the old
+mansion, its diamond window in the gable peering through the branches at
+us. "Skedup!" cried Amos, as he urged his pet nag into a jog-trot down
+the hill, through the main street of the town. The long fence in front
+of the homestead is soon reached, a sharp turn into the drive, a "Whoa,
+January!" and we are extricated from the wagon.
+
+"Wa'al, I'll leave ye naow. I guess ye kin find yer way around," said
+Shoop, as with one outlandish geometrical stride he lifted himself into
+the wagon. Cordially greeted by our hostess, with repeated urgings to
+"make ourselves at home," we were shown to our room. The house, though
+clad in a new dress, still retained the same hospitable and cosy look as
+of old.
+
+[Illustration: OLD HOMESTEAD AND GARRET.]
+
+Hometown, owing to some early local faction, is divided into two
+sections, forming two distinct towns. One, Newborough, a hill-top
+hamlet, with its picturesque long street, a hundred feet in width, and
+shaded with great weeping elms that almost meet overhead; and the other,
+Hometown proper, a picturesque little village in the valley, cuddling
+close around the foot of a precipitous bluff, known as Mount Pisgah. A
+mile's distance separates the two centres. The old homestead is
+situated in the heart of Hometown, fronting on the main street. The
+house itself is a series of after-thoughts, wing after wing and gable
+after gable having clustered around the old nucleus, as the growth of
+new generations necessitated increased accommodation. Its outward aspect
+is rather modern, but the interior, with its broad open fireplaces, and
+accessaries in the shape of cranes and fire-dogs, is rich with all the
+features of typical New England; and the two gables of the main roof
+enclose the dearest old garret imaginable--at present an asylum for the
+quaint possessions of antique furniture and bric-a-brac, removed from
+their accustomed quarters on the advent of the new host. It is to this
+sanctuary that my footsteps first lead me, and, with a longing that will
+not be withstood, I find myself in front of the great white door. I lift
+the latch; a cool pungent odor of oak wood greets me as I ascend the
+steep stairs--an odor that awakens, like magic, a hundred fancies, and
+recalls a host of memories long forgotten. Every stair seems to creak a
+welcome, as when, on the rainy days of long ago, we sought the cosy
+refuge to hear the patter on the roof, or to nestle in the dark, obscure
+corners in our childish games. At the head of the stairs rises the
+ancient chimney, cleft in twain at the foot, with the quaint little
+cuddy between. Above me stretch the great beams of oak, like iron in
+their hardness. Yonder is the queer old diamond window looking out upon
+the village church, its panes half obscured by the dusty maze of webs.
+To the left, in a shadowy corner, stands the antiquated wheel--a relic
+of past generations. Long gray cobwebs festoon the rafters overhead, and
+the low buzzing of a wasp betrays its mud nest in the gable above. A
+sense of sadness steals over me as I sit gazing into this still chamber.
+On every side are mementos of a happy past, and all, though mute,
+speaking to me in a language whose power stirs the depths of my soul.
+Wherever the eye may turn, it meets with a silent greeting from an old
+friend, and the whole shrouded in a weird gloom that lends to the most
+common object an air of melancholy mystery. And yet it is only a garret.
+There are some, no doubt, for whom this word finds its fitting synonyme
+in the dictionary, but there are others to whom it sings a poem of
+infinite sweetness.
+
+Looking through the dingy window between the maple boughs, my eye
+extends over lawn and shrubberies, three acres in extent--a little park,
+overrun with paths in every direction, through ancient orchard and
+embowered dells, while far beyond are glimpses of the wooded knolls, the
+winding brook, and meadows dotted with waving willows, and farther still
+the ample undulating farm.
+
+[Illustration: AMONG THE GRASSES.]
+
+It is in such a place as this that I have sought recreation and change
+of scene. My wife and I have run away from the city for a month or so. A
+vacation we call it; but to an artist such a thing is rarely known in
+its ordinary sense, and often, indeed, it means an increase of labor
+rather than a respite. My first week, however, I had consecrated to
+luxurious idleness. Together we wandered through the old familiar
+rambles where as boy and girl in earlier days we had been so oft
+together. Day after day found us in some new retreat. There were dark
+cool nooks by sheltered streams, spicy groves of pine and spruce,
+wooded slopes and rocky dells, and meadows rich with summer bloom, where
+idle butterflies flitted lazily on the wing; where meadow lilies nodded
+in billowing fields, and the daisies and red clover waved about our
+knees half screened in feathery purple grasses that spread their cloudy
+mist all through the blossoming maze. We heard the music of the scythe,
+and, sitting in the deep cool grass beneath the maple shade, we watched
+the circling motion of the mowers in the field--saw the forkfuls of the
+hay tossed in the drying sun, and breathed the perfumed air that floated
+from the windrows. We sauntered by the meadow brook where willows
+gleamed along the bank, and overhanging alders threw their sombre
+shadows in the quiet pools: where the ground-nut, and the meadow-rue,
+and the creeping madder fringed the tangled brink, and every footstep
+started up some agile frog that plunged into the unseen water. We stood
+where rippling shallows gurgled under festooned canopies of fox-grape,
+and the leaning linden-trees shut out the sky o'erhead and intertwined
+their drooping branches above the gliding current. Here, too, the
+weather-beaten crossing-pole makes its tottering span across the stream,
+and deep down beneath the bank the rainbow-tinted sunfish floats on
+filmy fins above his yellow bed of gravel, and we catch a flashing gleam
+of a silvery dace or shiner turning in the water.
+
+Now we confront a rude slab fence, an ancient landmark, that terminates
+its length at the edge of the stream, where its gray and crumbling
+boards are secured with rusty nails against the trunk of a tall
+buttonwood-tree. A loosened slab is easily found, and we are soon upon
+the other side; and after picking our way through a forest of
+bush-elders, we emerge upon an open lot of low flat pasture-land, known
+always as the "old swamp meadow." No other five acres on the face of the
+earth are so dear to me as this neglected field. I know its every rise
+and fall of ground, its every bog, and its lush greenness is refreshing
+even to the thought.
+
+It is a luxuriant garden of all manner of succulent and juicy
+vegetation; an outbursting extravagance of plant life of almost tropical
+exuberance. All New England's most majestic and ornamental flora seem
+congregated in its congenial soil; and even when a boy I learned to know
+and love them all, and even call them by their names.
+
+Here are towering stems of iron-weed lifting high their scattered purple
+crowns, and in their midst the woolly clumps of boneset, its white
+flowered cushions intermingling with the dense pink tufts of
+thorough-wort.
+
+On every side we overlook whole patches of these splendid blossoms, with
+their crests closely crowded in a mosaic of pink and white. And here's a
+bed of peppermint and spearmint, interspersed with flaming spikes of
+cardinal lobelia; and here a lusty plant of Indian mallow, entangled in
+a maze of gold-thread and smart-weed. Here are massive burdocks six feet
+high, and great trees of jimson-weed, with their large spiral flowers
+and thorny pods.
+
+High fronds of chain-fern rise up on every side from a jungle of
+bur-marigolds and clotburs, and tear-thumbs, with their saw-toothed
+stems and tiny bunches of pink blossoms.
+
+No inch of ground in the old swamp lot but which does its tenfold duty;
+and what it lacks in quality of produce it amply makes up in quantity.
+Even a neighboring bed of clean-washed gravel is overrun with creeping
+mallow, with its rounded leaves and little "cheeses" down among their
+shadows.
+
+[Illustration: EVEN-TIDE.]
+
+Farther on we see the lily-pond, with its surrounding swamp and its
+legion of crowded water-plants. Here are rank, massive beds of
+swamp-cabbage, and lofty cat-tails by the thousand among the bristling
+bogs of tussock-sedge and bulrush. Here are calamus patches, and alder
+thickets, and sedges without number; and the prickly carex and blue-flag
+abound on every side. There are galingales and reeds, and tall and
+graceful rushes, turtle-head and jointed scouring grass, and horse-tail,
+besides a host of other old acquaintances, whose faces are familiar, but
+whose names I never knew. But they were all my friends in boyhood. I
+knew them in the bud and in the blossom, and even in their winter
+skeletons, brown and broken in the snow. Near by there is a ditch: you
+never would know it, for it is completely hidden from view beneath an
+interlacing growth of jewel-weed. But see that gorgeous mass of deep
+scarlet that floods the farther bank! Nowhere within a circuit of miles
+around is there such a regal display of cardinal flowers as this:
+skirting the borders of the ditch for rods and rods, clustering about a
+ruined, tumbling fence, whose moss-grown pickets are almost hidden in
+the dense profusion of bloom.
+
+Then there is its airy companion, the "touch-me-not," with its
+translucent, juicy stem, and its queer little golden flowers with
+spotted throats--the "jewel-weed" we used to call it. I know not why,
+unless from the magic of its leaf, which, when held beneath the water,
+was transformed to iridescent frosted silver. We all remember its
+sensitive, jumping seed-pods, that burst even at our approach for fear
+that we should touch them; but no one can fully appreciate the beauty of
+the plant who has not seen its silvery leaf beneath the water. Here it
+justifies its name, for it is indeed a jewel.
+
+How often in those olden times have I lain down among these bulrushes
+and sedges near the lily pond, and listened to the buzzing songs of the
+crickets and the tiny katydids that swarmed the growth about me, and
+filled the air with their incessant din. I remember the little colony of
+ants that picked their way among the rushes; that gauzy dragon-fly too,
+that circled and dodged about the water's edge, now skimming close upon
+the surface, now darting out of sight, or perhaps alighting on an
+overhanging sedge, as motionless as a mounted specimen, with wings
+aslant and fully spread. "Devil's darning-needles" they were called. The
+devil may well be proud of them; for darning-needles of such precious
+metals and such exquisite design are rare indeed. They were of several
+sizes too. Some were large, and flashed the azure of the sapphire;
+others fluttered by with smoky, pearly wings, and slender bodies
+glittering in the light like animated emeralds: and another I well
+remember, a little airy thing, with a glistening sunbeam for a body, and
+wings of tiny rainbows.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+I remember how I watched the disturbed motion of the arrow-heads out in
+the water, as the cautious turtles worked their way among them, and
+crawled out upon the stump close by.
+
+Here they huddled together, a dozen or more, with heads erect, and
+turning from side to side as they surveyed the surrounding carpet of
+lily-pads, or listened to the bass-drum chorus of the great green
+bull-frogs among the pickerel-weed; and when I jumped and yelled at
+them, what a rolling, sprawling, splashing in the mud! It fairly makes
+me laugh to think of it. But there is hardly a leaf or wisp of grass in
+this old swamp lot but what brings back some old association or pleasant
+reminiscence.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+For a week thus we idled, now on the mountain, now in the meadow, while
+I, with my sketch-book and collecting-box, either whiled away the hours
+with my pencil, or left the unfinished work to pursue the tantalizing
+butterfly, or search for unsuspecting caterpillars among the weeds and
+bushes.
+
+[Illustration: SOME ART CONNOISSEURS.]
+
+[Illustration: PROFESSOR WIGGLER.]
+
+On a sprig of black alder I found one--the same little fellow as of old,
+afflicted with the peculiarities of all his progenitors. We used to call
+him "Professor Wiggler," owing to an hereditary nervous habit of
+wiggling his head from side to side when not otherwise employed. To
+this little humpbacked creature I am indebted for a great deal of past
+amusement. Distinctly I remember the whack-whack-whack on the inside of
+the old pasteboard box as the captive pets threatened to dash out their
+brains in their demonstrations at my approach. Professor Wiggler is
+really a most remarkable insect, as one might readily imagine from his
+scientific name, for in learned circles this individual is known as Mr.
+Gramatophora Trisignata. He has many strange eccentricities. At each
+moult of the skin he retains the shell of his former head on a long
+vertical filament. Two or three thus accumulate, and, as a consequence,
+in his maturer years he looks up to the head he wore when he was a
+youngster, and ponders on the flight of time and the hollowness of
+earthly things, or perhaps congratulates himself on the increased
+contents of his present shell. When fully grown, he stops eating, and
+goes into a new business. Selecting a suitable twig, he gnaws a
+cylindrical hole to its centre and follows the pith, now and then
+backing out of the tunnel, and dropping the excavated material in the
+form of little balls of sawdust. At length he emerges from the hollow,
+and again drawing himself in backward, spins a silken disk across the
+opening, and tints it with the color of the surrounding bark. Here he
+spends the winter, and comes out in a new spring suit in the following
+May. Only recently I had in my possession several of these twigs with
+their enclosed caterpillars, and in every one the color of the silken
+lid so closely matched the tint of the adjacent bark, although
+different in each, that several of my friends, even with the most
+careful scrutiny, failed to detect the deceptive spot. Whether the
+result of chance or of the instincts of the insect, I do not know; but
+certain it is that he paints with different colors under varying
+circumstances.
+
+Insect-hunting had always been a passion with me. Large collections of
+moths and butterflies had many times accumulated under my hands, only to
+meet destruction through boyish inexperience; and even in childhood the
+love for the insect and the passion for the pencil strove hard for the
+ascendency, and were only reconciled by a combination which filled my
+sketch-book with studies of insect life.
+
+There was one inhabitant of our fields which had always been to me a
+never-failing source of entertainment. There he is, the gilded tyrant. I
+see him now swinging to and fro on his glistening nest of silken
+threads, his golden yellow form glowing in bold relief against the dark
+recess in the brambles. My sketch is left in the grass, and I am soon
+seated in front of the gossamer maze. A festive grasshopper jumps up
+into my face, and makes a carom on the web. With a spasmodic snap of one
+hind leg he extricates it from its entanglement, and in another instant
+would fall from the meshes; but the agile spider is too quick for him.
+With a movement so swift as almost to elude the eye, he draws from his
+body a silver cloud of floss, and with his long hind legs throws it over
+his captive. The head and tail of the grasshopper are now further
+secured, after which the spider carefully straddles around the
+struggling insect, and bites off the other radiating webs in close
+proximity. The unlucky prey now hangs suspended across the opening. With
+business-like coolness his tormentor dangles himself from the edge of
+the torn web, and another cataract of glistening floss is thrown up and
+attached to the under side of the prisoner, after which he is turned
+round and round, as if on a spit. The stream of floss is carried from
+head to foot, and in less time than it takes to describe it the victim
+is wrapped in a silken winding-sheet, and soon meets his death from the
+poisoned fangs of his captor. Here is but one of the thousands of
+tragedies that are taking place every hour of the day in our fields.
+While deeply interested in the closing scenes of this one, I suddenly
+become aware of a shadow passing over the bushes. I turn my head, and
+meet the puzzled and pleasant gaze of Amos Shoopegg, as he stands there,
+hands in pockets, and milk-pail swinging from his wrist.
+
+[Illustration: THE TYRANT OF THE FIELDS.]
+
+"Wa'al, thar," he exclaims, banging down one brawny fist on his uplifted
+knee. "Buggin' agin, I swaow! Hain't yeu got over thet yit? What yeu kin
+find so mighty fine in them 'ere bugs beats me."
+
+"Amos," I replied, "there's a great deal more in these bugs than you
+imagine."
+
+"A pleggy sight, I suppose," he resumed. "What specie o' critter ye got
+hold on naow?" and he stretched forward his fringed and weather-beaten
+neck, and peered over the brambles. "What is't ye got
+thar--straddle-bug?" He came still nearer, and looked at the spider.
+"Wa'al, darn my pictur ef 'tain't an old yeller-belly! P'r'aps you don't
+know that them critters is pizen. Why, Eben Sanford's gal got all chawed
+up by one on 'em. Great Sneezer!" he exclaimed, taking three or four
+strides backward, with both hands uplifted. I had merely raised my hand
+and gently smoothed the spider.
+
+"Wa'al," he continued, "yen kin rub 'em daown ef yeu pleze; but fer _my_
+part, I'd ruther keep off abaout a good spittin' distance"--which was
+the Shoopegg way of expressing a length of about fifteen feet. Amos was
+crossing lots for his "caow," he said; but in spite of his plea that the
+"old heiffer" was "bellerin'" like "Sam Hill," and was "gittin' 'tarnal
+on-easy," I made him tarry sufficiently long to enable me to send him
+off a wiser man.
+
+Amos Shoopegg is a type of a large class of the native element of
+Hometown. Of course, "Shoopegg" is not his actual name. In the long line
+of his prided Puritan ancestry no one ever bore it before him. This is
+only an affectionate epithet given him by the village boys full twenty
+years ago, and it has stuck to him closer than a brother ever since, as
+those festive surnames always do. Nominally, Amos was a farmer. In
+summer he was one in fact, and could swing off as pretty a swath in
+haying as any man in town. But in the winter he changed his vocation,
+and became a disciple of the "waxed-end." All day long he could be seen,
+closeted with a little red-hot stove, plying his trade in his small,
+square shop, up near the old red school-house. Here he pounded on the
+big lapstone on his knees, or, with strap and foot-stick in position,
+punched and tugged around the edge of those marvellous brogans. He made
+slings and leather "suckers" for the boys, and furnished them with all
+the black-wax they could chew--or stow-away, to stick between the lining
+of their pockets. And the huge wooden shoe-pegs that he drove beneath
+his hammer were a sight to behold. The man who used his "cheap line of
+goods" might verily say he walked upon a wood-pile.
+
+So they dubbed him "Shoe-peg," or "Shoop" for brevity. There are others
+among his neighbors who would furnish an inexhaustible source of study
+to the student of character. There's old Rufus Fairchild, known as
+"Roof," a rotund specimen of rural jollity, his round face set in
+dishevelled locks of gray, with a twinkle in his eye and a good word for
+everybody. And there's Father Tomlinson, who keeps the post-office down
+by the dam, as genial an old fellow as ever wrapped up his throat in a
+white stock. And I might almost continue the list indefinitely. But
+there is one I must especially mention; and, now that I think of it, he
+really should have headed the list, for he stands alone--or at least he
+does _sometimes_. If you are in search of the embodiment of typical
+Erin, you need go no farther; here he is. This individual represents
+another nationality which swells the population of Hometown--the
+hard-working laborers who toil in the great factory down in the glen,
+called "Satan's Misery." The above personage is one of the best-hearted
+creatures in the town; but it is the old story, and the world to him is
+enclosed in the compass of a barrel-hoop. When last I saw him he was in
+an evident decline, but as I put my finger on his wrist I could still
+feel the pulsations of the whiskey coursing through his veins.
+
+"Look here, my good fellow," I said to him one day, "why don't you taper
+off a little? If you keep on in this way, you'll be in your grave in
+less than a month. How would you like that?"
+
+"Arrah, begorra," he replied, with a look of hopeful resignation, "if I
+cud awnly be shure o' me gude skvare dthrink in the other wurrld, oi
+wudn't moind."
+
+The record of a single evening spent in the village store, with its
+rural jargon and homespun yarns, its odd vernacular and rustic gossip,
+would make a volume as rare and unique as the characters it would
+depict.
+
+The store itself is a matchless picture in its way, and for variety in
+accessory is as rich as could be wished for. The low, murky ceiling,
+hung with all manner of earthly goods--scythes and rakes, boots and
+pails, in pendulous array; bottles and boxes, brooms and breast-pins,
+are here--in short, everything that heart could wish or thought suggest,
+from speckled calicoes to seven-cent sugar, or from a three-tined fork
+to a goose-yoke. Evening after evening, for an hour or so, I was tempted
+thither, until I found the week had gone. Sunday came again--Sunday in
+New England. The old bell swung on its wheel in the belfry, ringing out
+its call to devotion, and ere the echo had died in the recesses of the
+mountain beyond the still atmosphere reverberated with an answering peal
+from the little sister church in the valley below, as the scattered
+groups with strolling steps wend their way to "meeting," and the gay
+loads from Newborough go flitting by on the accustomed Sunday drive.
+
+Monday dawned on Hometown. It found me up and doing. I had enjoyed one
+week of glorious loafing, but work was the programme for the next. I
+went to Draper's Inn and engaged a horse and buggy "until further
+notice." "A spang-up team" he called it, and it would be up "in half a
+jiffy." We were waiting for it when it came, and what with our variety
+of luggage in the shape of canvases, color-boxes, hammocks, camp-seats,
+and easels, every bit of available space in that buggy was well
+utilized. Before the clock has struck nine, we are spinning along down
+through the village, now past the store, now over the bridge, and
+turning to the right, we glide by the little post-office, as the kind
+face of Father Tomlinson nods a "good-bye" from the door-way.
+
+A little farther, and we have left the little slope-roofed school-house
+in our path, and are soon ascending the long hill of Zoar, from which we
+look back four miles to the cliff and nestling town. In ten minutes more
+we approach the brow of a steep declivity, and the broad Housatonic
+opens up to view, winding off into the misty mountains in the distance.
+There is now a drive of half a mile along the side of a wild
+mountain-slope, where mountain-laurels grow in wild profusion, and the
+rooty, overhanging banks are tufted with rich green moss, overgrown with
+checker-berries and arbutus. The river roars far down below us, and for
+a few minutes our eyes feast on as lovely an extent of varied New
+England landscape as is easily found. And yet this is only a short
+section of one of the many matchless drives that follow the course of
+this beautiful river around the borders of Hometown.
+
+[Illustration: FAMILIAR FACES AT THE VILLAGE STORE.]
+
+Suddenly we leave the stream as it glides away on an abrupt turn beneath
+the crescent of a rocky precipice, and before we have fairly lost the
+sound of the ripples we have arrived at our journey's end. A pair of
+bars under an old butternut-tree mark the place. The carriage is backed
+to the side of the road, and the horse turned loose in the rocky meadow.
+This is Joab Nichols's "pasture lot," with fodder consisting principally
+of huge boulders, hardhack, and spleenwort; to be sure, with a stray
+relish of "butter-and-eggs" here and there, and a thousand white saucers
+of wild carrot handy to go with them. One or two trips across the field
+bring all our luggage, and we are soon enjoying cool comfort in the
+hemlock shade of a fairy grotto. Above us the babbling brook bounds and
+splashes over mossy rocks, disappearing in a mass of creamy foam, from
+under which it eddies toward us only to plunge twenty feet into a
+miniature canyon below. Again, yonder it bubbles into a whirling pool,
+where the bordering ferns bend and nod above its buoyant surface; and
+now gliding from view beneath the tangle of drooping boughs, it
+disappears only to burst forth once more in its merry song as it rushes
+over the rapids.
+
+    "I chatter, chatter as I go,
+       To join the brimming river;
+     For men may come and men may go,
+       But I go on forever."
+
+Here in this wild retreat I have found my sylvan studio--shut in by
+fringed and fragrant evergreens, enlivened by the undergrowth of
+feathery fronds, and the shimmer of the beech, as the tracery of
+overhanging boughs trembles in the gentle breeze. Day after day finds us
+in this little paradise, and as one in luxurious hammock swings away the
+hours, now lost in fiction, now in short repose, or perhaps with busy
+needle fashions graceful figures in Kensington design, the canvas on the
+easel shows a fortnight's constant care, and the palette changes to a
+keepsake of a sunny memory--a tinted souvenir.
+
+For two weeks the gurgling brook sang to us in this wild retreat. As
+evening after evening closed in upon us, the unfinished pictures were
+stowed away in horizontal crevices between the rocks, and, with hammock
+still swinging in the trees, we left the gloom to the hooting owl, that
+evening after evening, with tremulous cry, proclaimed the twilight hour
+from the tall hemlock overhead. Ere long the murmuring Housatonic
+shimmers below us in the moonlight as we hurry on our homeward way, and
+the distant lights of Hometown are soon seen glimmering; through the
+evening mist. The old bridge now rumbles through the darkness its signal
+of our return, and the host of Draper's Inn is seen awaiting us at the
+illumined door-way. A quiet, cosy supper, and in the rays of a gleaming
+lantern, held aloft to light our path, we follow our lengthening shadows
+to the old front gate. Repeat this day's record fourteen times, and you
+have the sum of a happy experience, with but one drawback: it had an
+end--an end that would have left its reaction, were it not for the store
+of increased pleasure that awaited us for the few closing days of our
+pilgrimage--for me, at least, although in other scenes, its climax.
+
+[Illustration: A SOUVENIR.]
+
+Many like me are happy in the possession of a dear old homestead; but
+there are few, I ween, who enjoy the blessing of a double inheritance
+such as has been my lot--two homes which share my equal devotion, two
+homes without a choice; the one this beloved heirloom in Hometown, and
+the other--But you shall see. We shall be there soon, for the little
+satchel is packed, and the carriage awaits us at the gate. A drive of
+eighteen miles is before us--a beautiful series of pictures. Down
+through the village, past the old red mill and smithy, with its ringing
+anvil, and we are soon winding our way through a sombre glen. Presently
+we catch glimpses of the great rumbling factory, with its clouds of
+smoke and steam melting into the wooded mountain above. The old yellow
+bridge now creaks under our approach, and ere we are aware a sudden turn
+leads us out of a wilderness on to the shore of the beautiful
+Housatonic. For a few minutes the rushing water trickles through the
+wheels as over jolting stones our pony leads us through the ford, and,
+refreshed by the cool bath, makes a lively sally up the eastern bank.
+For ten miles the Housatonic guides us around its winding curves through
+a path of ever-changing beauty, now shut in by the dense, dark
+evergreens, and again emerging into a bower of silvery beeches, where
+the roadway is carpeted with mottled shadows, and the dappled trunks
+flicker with the softened glints of sunlight. Here we come upon a sandy
+stretch where the road is sunken between two sloping banks thick-set
+with mulleins and sweet-fern, and overrun with creeping brambles. The
+stone-wall above is wreathed in trailing woodbine, and along its crest
+we see the swaying tips of wheat from the edge of the field just beyond;
+and here we pass a border of whortleberry bushes, laden with their
+fruit. Now it is a hazel thicket crowding close upon our wheels, and
+among the leaves we see the brown, tanned husks of the ripening nuts,
+almost ready for that troop of boys and girls that you may be sure are
+watching and waiting for them.
+
+The old gray toll-bridge soon nears to view, with its two long spans and
+fantastic beams. Farther on, peering from its willows, stands the ruined
+cider-mill, with its long moss-grown lever jutting through the trees--an
+old-time haunt, now crumbling in decay. But we only catch a glimpse of
+it, for in a moment more we are shut in beneath another bower of beeches
+and white birches, where the road takes a steep ascent, and the rippling
+river sends up its sunny reflections among the leaves and tree-trunks.
+When once more upon a level, it is to look ahead through a long avenue
+of shade--a leafy canopy two miles in length--with only an occasional
+break to open up some charming bit of landscape across the water. In
+these two miles of umbrage you may see types of almost every tree that
+grows within the boundaries of New England. Old veteran beeches are
+here, their trunks disfigured with scars that once were names cut in the
+bark. Here are spots that look like half obliterated figures; and here
+are spreading hieroglyphs that tell, perhaps, of old-time vows plighted
+at the trysting-tree; and here's a semblance of a heart, a broken heart
+indeed, if its present form be taken as a prophetic symbol.
+
+[Illustration: ALONG THE HOUSATONIC.]
+
+There are magnificent rock-maples too, and silver-maples that shake down
+their little swarms of winged seeds. Tulip-trees and spotted buttonwoods
+grow side by side, and quivering aspens and white poplars are seen at
+every clearing. There are yellow birch-trunks frayed out with the wind,
+and great snake-like stems of grape-vine, that twist and writhe among
+the branches of the trees. There are hop hornbeams, and chestnuts,
+and--But there is no need to enumerate them all. Just think of every New
+England tree you ever knew, and add a score besides, and you will form a
+slight idea of the varied verdure that hems in this charming Housatonic
+drive, with its rocky roadside embroidered in trickling moss and
+fumitory; and rose-flowered mountain-raspberry growing so close upon the
+road that your pony takes a wayward nip, and plucks its blossomed tip as
+he passes.
+
+Now comes an open level, with wide, expansive views, where every turn
+upon the road brings its fresh surprise, as some new combination of hazy
+mountain landscape towers above the distant river bend; and the flitting
+cloud shadows lead their capricious, undulating chase across the wooded
+slopes. The roadsides here are full of everchanging beauties too, with
+their trimmings of ornamental sunflowers, their picturesque old fences,
+and their clumps of purple-berried poke-weed, with here and there a
+yellow patch of toad-flax, and aromatic tufts of tansy hugging close
+against the fence. Even that clambering screen of clematis that trails
+over the shrubbery yonder cannot hide the scattered tips of crimson that
+already have appeared among the sumach leaves.
+
+There are a thousand things one meets upon a country ride or ramble
+which at the time are allowed to pass with but a glance. The eye is
+surfeited and the mind confused with the continual pageantry. But months
+afterward, in the reveries about our winter fires, they all come back to
+us, with the added charm of reminiscence; and whether it be a crystal
+spring among a bank of ferns, or a thistle-top with its fluttering
+butterfly and inevitable bumblebee rolling in the tufted blossom, or a
+squirrel running along a rail, or perhaps a rattling grasshopper
+hovering in mid-air above the dusty road--no matter what, they all are
+welcome memories at our fireside, and draw our hearts still closer to
+the loveliness of nature.
+
+This Housatonic road is rich in just such pastoral pictures. Two hours
+on such a course soon pass, when our pony whinnies at the welcome sight
+of the old log water-trough beyond--a landmark old and green when I was
+yet a boy, still nestling in its rocky bed, shadowed by the drooping
+hemlocks, still lavish with its overflowing bounty.
+
+This benefactor by the way-side marks a turning-point in our journey, as
+we leave the grandeur of the Housatonic to pursue our way by the nooks
+and dingles of the wild Shepaug--a bubbling tributary whose happy waters
+sing of a varied experience. Now placid through the blossoming fields,
+now plunging down the precipice to ripple through a verdant valley,
+where, hemmed in at every turn, it seeks its only liberty beneath the
+rumbling of the old mill-wheels; and at last, ere it loses its identity
+in the swelling tide, leaving a mischievous and tumultuous record as it
+pours through the rocky canyon, and with surging, whirling volume carves
+huge caverns and fantastic statues in its massive bed of stone. Even now
+through the dark forest beyond we can hear the muffled roar, and for
+nearly a league farther as we ascend the long hill it comes to us in
+fitful whispers wafted on the changing breeze. Reaching the summit of
+this incline, we find ourselves on a hill-top wide and far-reaching, on
+right and left losing itself in wooded wold, while in front the level
+road diminishes to a point, surmounted by blue hills in the distance.
+Two miles on a pastoral hill-top, where golden-rod and tall spiraeas
+cluster along the lichen-covered walls, where orange-lilies gleam among
+the alders, with now and then a blazing group of butterfly-plant or a
+dusty clump of milk-weed. The air is laden with the nut-like odor of the
+everlasting flowers all around us. The buzzing drum of the harvest-fly
+vibrates from every tree, and we hear the tinkling bell and lowing of
+the cattle in some neighboring field. Farther on, we look down from the
+edge of the plateau through the length of Happy Valley, with its winding
+stream, its barns and busy mills, its sunny homes glinting through the
+summer haze. On the left the lofty shadowed cliff known as "Steep-rock"
+towers against the evening sky, and again we catch the murmuring whiffs
+of the rushing stream in its sweeping bend beneath the overhanging
+precipice. A sharp turn round a jutting hill-side, and I meet a prospect
+that quickens the heart and makes the eye grow dim. There beyond, three
+miles "as flies the laden bee," I linger on the welcome sight, as on its
+hill-top fair two steeples side by side betray the hidden town, my
+second home.
+
+How lightly did I appreciate the fortunate journey when, twenty summers
+ago, I followed this road for the first time, when a boy of ten years,
+on my way to an unknown village, I looked across the landscape to the
+little spires on that distant hill! Little did I dream of the six years
+of unmixed happiness and precious experience that awaited me in that
+little Judea! I only knew that I was sadly quitting a happy home on my
+way to "boarding-school"--a school called the Snuggery, taught by a Mr.
+Snug, in a little village named Snug Hamlet, about twenty miles from
+Hometown.
+
+There are some experiences in the life of every one which, however
+truthful, cannot be told but to elicit the doubtful nod or the warning
+finger of incredulity. They were such experiences as these, however,
+that made up the sum of my early life in that happy refuge called in
+modern parlance a "boarding-school"--a name as empty, a word as weak and
+tame in its significance, as poverty itself; no doubt abundantly
+expressive in its ordinary application, but here it is a mockery and a
+satire. This is not a "boarding-school;" it is a _household_, whose
+memories moisten the eye and stir the soul; to which its scattered
+members through the fleeting years look back as to a neglected home,
+with father and mother dear, whom they long once more to meet as in the
+tenderness of boyhood days; a cherished remembrance which, like the
+"house upon a hill, cannot be hid," but sends abroad its light unto many
+hearts who in those early days sought the loving shelter; a bright star
+in the horizon of the past, a glow that ne'er grows dim, but only
+kindles and brightens with the flood of years. Yes, yes; I know it
+sounds like a dash of sentiment, but words of mine are feeble and
+impotent indeed when sought for the expression of an attachment so fond,
+of a love so deep.
+
+Fifteen years ago, with a parting full of sorrow, I rode away from Snug
+Hamlet yonder in the village stage--a day that brought a depression that
+lingered long, and lingers still. Glowing, sunset-tinted fields glide by
+unnoticed now, as, with eyes intent on the distant hill, I look back
+through the lapse of time. A mile has gone without my knowing it, when a
+joyous laugh awakens me from my day-dreams. Two boys approach us on the
+road ahead, and, what might seem very strange to you, one wears a wooden
+boot-jack strung around his neck and dangling on his breast; but he
+carries his burden lightly and cheerfully. As they near the carriage I
+draw the rein, and they both pause by the roadside.
+
+"Well, boys," I ask, "where do _you_ hail from?"
+
+"We're from the Snuggery, sir."
+
+"I thought so," said I, with a laugh, in which they both joined. "But
+what are you doing with that boot-jack?"
+
+"Oh, you see," said one, with a roguish smile, "Charlie and I were
+having a little tussle in the sitting-room, and he picked up Mr. Snug's
+boot-jack in the corner and began to pummel me with it; and jest as we
+were having it the worst, and were rollin' on the floor, Mr. Snug came
+in and caught us in the job, and now we're _payin'_ for it."
+
+"How so?" I inquired, well knowing what would be the response.
+
+"Oh, you see, Mr. Snug held a diagnosis over our remains, and said he
+thought we were suffering, for the want of a little exercise, and
+ordered us on a trip to Judd's Bridge."
+
+"And the boot-jack?"
+
+"Oh, he said that Charlie might want to play with that some more on the
+way, and that he'd better fetch it along;" and with a mischievous
+snicker at his encumbered companion, he led him along the road in an
+hilarious race, while we enjoyed a hearty laugh at their expense.
+
+And this a _punishment_! Yes, here is an introduction to one phase of a
+system of correction as unique as the matchless institution in which it
+had its birth--a system without a parallel in the annals of chastisement
+or school government, and which for thirty years has proved its wisdom
+in the household management of the Snuggery.
+
+"To Judd's Bridge!" How natural the sound of those words! How many
+times have I myself been on that same pilgrimage of penance! The
+destination of these boys is a rickety but picturesque structure which
+spans the Shepaug five miles below Snug Hamlet. Through three decades it
+looks back to its host of acquaintances of those romping lads who, in
+the superfluity of exuberant spirits, made havoc and din in the
+household. The dose is administered with wise discrimination both as to
+the symptoms and the needs and strength of the patient. It always proves
+a sterling remedy, and sometimes, indeed, a sugar-coated one, as in the
+case of these two ruddy, rollicking examples.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+Judd's Bridge is but one of a score of places which serve in the
+administration of Snuggery discipline. It is, however, the one most
+remote, and its ten-mile journey is reserved as an heroic dose for
+extraordinary cases, after other prescriptions have been tried without
+avail. Next on the list comes Moody Barn, with "open doors" every day in
+the week to its frequent callers. This old settler, gray and
+weather-beaten, marks a point one mile from the Snuggery, where the
+still waters of the Shepaug run slow and deep--the favorite
+"swimming-hole" of the Snuggery.
+
+[Illustration: THE HAUNTED MILL.]
+
+And then there's Kirby Corners, a mere stroll of a few minutes round the
+square of a rock-bound pasture--just enough to give yourself time to
+think a bit and congratulate yourself on what you have escaped. All
+these, and several more, are vivid in my memory; friends, old and
+intimate. And here's another, right before us by the roadside. For
+several minutes through the tantalizing trees we have heard its rumbling
+wheel, its reiterating clank, and busy saw; and now, as its familiar
+outline looms up against the evening sky, the vision seems to darken, as
+on that night of long ago, when through the shadowy mystery of the
+moonlit gloom I stole my way among the sheltering golden-rod; when the
+lofty flume, like a huge horned creature, seemed to stride athwart me in
+the darkness, and the fitful boyish fancy saw strange phantoms in the
+floating, melting mist. This ancient structure reposes in a verdant dell
+at the foot of Snug Hamlet Hill. A choice of two roads lies before
+us--one short and direct, the other a roundabout approach. A sudden
+impulse leads me into the latter. On right and left I see the same old
+rocks and trees. There stands the aged beech to whose gnarled and hollow
+trunk I traced the agile flying-squirrel, and with suffocating flame and
+smoke drove him from his hiding-place. Here between large rocks and
+stones the trout-stream runs its course, now pouring in small cataracts,
+now eddying into still, dark nooks, where in those by-gone times I
+dropped the line of expectancy, but showed the clumsiness of adversity.
+A few minutes later, and we are gliding again by the dark Shepaug, now
+flowing calm and silent beneath a rugged bank, wild and umbrageous,
+where the swarm of katydids, with grating discord, maintain their old
+dispute, that never-ending feud. The wheels turn noiselessly in the
+shifting sand as we pursue our way. The low gray fog steals lightly over
+the lily-pads, floating into seclusion beneath the sheltering boughs,
+or, like an evanescent spirit, borne upon the evening breath, is lifted
+from the gloom, and slowly melts into the twilight sky. The solitary
+whippoorwill from his mysterious haunt, perhaps in yonder tree, perhaps
+in the mountain loneliness beyond, proclaims with dismal cry his
+oft-repeated wail. And as we ascend the darkening path, through the
+still night air, in measured cadence long and sad, we hear the toll of
+the distant knell. Threescore-and-ten its numbers tell of the earthly
+years--a curfew requiem for the dead. Even as we pass the little chapel
+at the summit of the hill, and the bell has scarcely ceased its
+melancholy tidings, we hear the shouts and merry laughs of the boys on
+the village green. Presently its broad expanse, shut in by twinkling
+windows and massive trees, spreads out before us, as a clear and ringing
+voice, like that of old, echoes through the growing darkness, "One
+hundred! Nothing said, coming ahead!" and a dim figure steals cautiously
+from the steps of the old white church to seek in the sequestered
+hiding-places. With a heart that fairly thumps, I urge my pony onward
+across the green, and ere he slackens his pace I am at my journey's end.
+The dear old Snuggery, with its gables manifold and quaint, its
+fantastic wings and towers, stands there before me, the glowing windows
+beaming through the maples. Leaving our pony in willing hands, we enter
+the gate, and are soon upon the wide porch.
+
+[Illustration: PURSUERS AND PURSUED.]
+
+It is eight o'clock, and the Snuggery is hushed in the quiet of the
+study hour, and as we look through the windows we see the little groups
+of studious lads bending over their books. Turning a corner on the
+piazza, we are confronted with a tall hexagonal structure at its farther
+end. This is the Tower, the lower room of which is consecrated to the
+cosy retirement of Mr. and Mrs. Snug. The door leading to the porch is
+open, and, as if awakening from a nap in which the past fifteen years
+have been a dream, I listen to the same dear voice. I approach nearer.
+Under the glow of a student's lamp I look upon the beloved face, the
+flowing hair and beard now silvered with the lapse of years--a face of
+unusual firmness, but whose every line marks the expression of a tender,
+loving nature, and of a large and noble heart. Near him another sits--a
+helpmeet kind and true, cherished companion in a happy, useful life.
+Into her lap a nestling lad has climbed; and as she strokes the curly
+head and looks into the chubby face, I see the same expression as of
+old, the same motherly tenderness and love beaming from the large gray
+eyes.
+
+Mr. Snug is leaning back in his easy-chair, and two boys are standing up
+before him; one of them is speaking, evidently in answer to a question.
+
+"I called him a galoot, sir."
+
+"You called George a galoot, and then he threw the base-ball club at
+you--is that it?"
+
+"Yes, sir," interrupted George; "but I was only playing, sir."
+
+"Yes," resumed the voice of Mr. Snug, "but that club went with
+considerable force, and landed over the fence, and made havoc in Deacon
+Farish's onion-bed; and that reminds me that the deacon's onion-bed is
+overrun with weeds. Now, Willie," continued Mr. Snug, after a moment's
+hesitation, with eyes closed, and head thrown back against the chair,
+"Saturday morning--to-morrow, that is--directly after breakfast, you go
+out into the grove and call names to the big rock for half an hour.
+Don't stop to take breath; and don't call the same name twice. Your
+vocabulary will easily stand the drain. You understand?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"And, George," continued Mr. Snug, with deliberate, easy intonation,
+"to-morrow morning, at the same time, you present yourself politely to
+Deacon Farish, tell him that I sent you, and ask him to escort you to
+his onion-bed. After which you will go carefully to work and pull out
+all the weeds. You understand, sir?"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"And then you will both report to me as usual." And with a pleasant
+smile, which was reflected in both their faces, the erring youngsters
+were dismissed. Before the door has closed behind them we are standing
+in the door-way. Here I draw the curtain; for who but one of its own
+household could understand a welcome at the Snuggery?
+
+Those of my old school-mates who read this meagre sketch will know the
+happiness of such a meeting; but others less fortunate in the
+recollections of school-life can only look for its counterpart in an
+affectionate welcome in their own homes, for the Snuggery _is_ a home to
+all who ever dwelt within its gates. Seated in the familiar cosiness,
+and surrounded by the friends of my school-days, the hours fly fast and
+pleasantly. There is plenty to talk about. Here is a village full of
+good people of whom I wish to learn, and there are many far-off chums of
+whom I carry tidings. A bell rings in the cupola as one by one, from the
+buzz in the outer rooms, boys large and small seek our seclusion for the
+accustomed good-night adieu; and ere another hour has passed forty
+sleepy urchins are packed away in their snug quarters. The evening runs
+on into midnight, as with stories of the past, its pains and penalties,
+its remembrances, now humorous now sad by turns, we recall the good old
+times; and the "wee sma' hours" are already upon us as we reluctantly
+retire from the goodly company to our rooms across the way.
+
+[Illustration: TOLLING FOR THE DEAD.]
+
+The next morning finds us in the midst of a merry load, with Mr. Snug as
+a driver; and many and varied were the beauties that opened up before us
+on that charming ride! Snug Hamlet, once called Judea, in the qualities
+of its landscape as well as in everything else, is unique. Stripped of
+all its old associations, it presents to the artistic eye a combination
+of attractions scarcely to be equalled in the boundaries of New England.
+Situated itself on the brow of an abrupt hill, where its picturesque
+homes cluster about a broad open green, a few minutes' drive in any
+direction reveals a surrounding panorama of the rarest loveliness. Five
+hundred feet below us, winding in and out, now beneath leafy tangles,
+now under quaint little bridges, and again reposing placidly in broad
+mill-ponds, the happy Shepaug lends to a lovely valley its usefulness
+and beauty. Turning in another direction, we pass the Snuggery
+ball-ground, animated with the shouts of victory; and descending into a
+vale of almost primeval wildness, we continue our way up the ascent of
+"Artist's Hill," from whose summit on every side, as far as the eye can
+reach, the landscape softens into the hazy horizon. Returning, we pass
+through a ruined waste, where, three months before, the fierce tornado
+swooped down in its fiendish fury. On every side we see its awful
+evidences. Huge oaks, like brittle pipe-stems, snapped from their
+moorings; sturdy hickories, mere play-things in the gale, twisted into
+shreds.
+
+[Illustration: WRECKS OF THE TORNADO.]
+
+Every morning saw me on some new drive, either with a wagon full of
+merry company, or as alone with Mr. Snug we held our quiet _tete-a-tete_
+on wheels, living over the olden times. In the afternoon I strolled by
+myself through the old and eloquent scenes. A volume could not hold the
+memories they revived--no, not even those of yonder barn alone. Even as
+I sit making my pencil-sketch, its reminiscences seem to float across
+the vision. Distinctly it recalls the events of one evening years ago.
+It was at about the sunset hour one Friday. I was quietly sitting on a
+lounge in the parlor talking to Cuthbert Harding, who was standing in
+front of me. Presently the door opens, and the tall figure of Dick Shin
+enters. Dick and I were antipodes in every sense of the word. Physically
+we were as a match and a billiard ball, he being the lucifer. He was
+also my _bete noire_, and he never missed an opportunity to vent his
+spite. Accordingly he stalked toward us, and with a violent push sent
+Cuthbert pell-mell on to me. In falling, he stepped heavily on my foot,
+and hurt me severely, which accounted for my excited expression as I
+threw him from me.
+
+Of course Mr. Snug had to come in just at this time, and seeing us in
+what looked to him very like a fight, he took us firmly by the ears and
+stood us side by side, while I ventured to explain.
+
+"Not a word!" exclaimed he, in a tone there was no mistaking. "You two
+boys may cool off on a trip to Moody Barn, after which you will report
+to me in the Tower. Now go."
+
+Whatever may have been the state of my mind a few moments before, I was
+now mad in earnest, and with every bit of my latent obstinacy aroused, I
+sauntered out on to the porch.
+
+"Cool off, old boy," whispered a grating voice at my side, as I turned
+and met the gaze of Dick Shin, motioning with his thumb in the direction
+of Moody Barn--"cool off; you need it;" and his ample mouth stretched
+into a sneering grin.
+
+I had already formed an intention, but now it was a resolve.
+
+"Cuthbert," said I to my quiet and less choleric companion, when some
+distance down the road, "I am not going on that trip."
+
+"Not going!" replied he, with surprise; "why, you'll _have_ to go."
+
+"But I _won't_ go, and that settles it. It's confounded unjust that
+we're sent, anyhow, and I don't propose to stand it."
+
+"I think so too," answered Cuthbert, with hesitating emphasis; "but
+what'll we do? We'll have to report to Mr. Snug, you know; that's the
+_worst_ of it."
+
+"Well, I'll be spokesman, and I'll _lie_ before I'll go on that trip."
+
+I was boiling over with righteous wrath, but Cuthbert never was known to
+boil; he only simmered a little, but readily seconded my plan. We
+stopped at Kirby Corners, and there, secluded from view in the bushes,
+we spent the interval. Cuthbert had a watch, and by the light of the
+rising moon we were enabled to fix the full period for the trip. One
+hour and a half we allowed--an abundant limit. During this time I had
+completely "cooled off," and had schooled myself to that point where I
+could tell a lie with a smooth face and a clear conscience.
+Accordingly, when the time came, we appeared at the door of the Tower.
+Mr. Snug was sitting in his accustomed place, and we entered and stood
+before him.
+
+[Illustration: PASSING THOUGHTS.]
+
+"Well, sir," said he, with a polite bow of the head, dropping his paper
+and looking up at us.
+
+"Mr. Snug, we have come to report," said I, fearlessly. "We have been to
+Moody Barn."
+
+Instantly Mr. Snug straightened himself up in his chair, pushed back
+the gray locks from his high forehead, and, with an expression that I
+never shall forget, glared at me from under the frowning eyebrows.
+
+"_You lie, sir!_" he exclaimed, in thundering tones that fairly made my
+hair stand on end, while Cuthbert trembled from head to foot; then
+followed a brief moment of consternation that seemed an age. "Now go!"
+continued he, as with an emphatic nod of the head he motioned toward the
+door. Sheepish and crest-fallen, we slunk away from the room. It is
+needless to say that we went this time. Through the darkness, by the aid
+of a lantern, we picked our way, as with theories numerous and ingenious
+we strove to account for that vociferous reception.
+
+Late that night we held an experience meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Snug in
+the Tower, and if I remember right there were a few tears that fell, and
+many apologies and good resolves, and as the true state of the case
+dawned on Mr. Snug there was an evident twinge of regret on his kind
+face.
+
+On the following morning (Saturday) there was a jolly party of youths
+leaving the Snuggery for a day's boating at the lake. Dick Shin was
+among them; and just as he was passing out the gate, a youngster
+approaches him and taps him on the shoulder. "You are hereby arrested,
+sir, on the orders of Mr. Snug."
+
+With an anxious and innocent expression Dick follows his juvenile
+constable into the Tower, and his companions stroll along after to
+ascertain the cause of the detention. We pass over the brief but amusing
+trial, in which the prisoner, with the innocence of a little lamb,
+pleaded his cause.
+
+"You _stumbled_, did you?" said Mr. Snug. "Well, you ought to know, sir,
+by this time that I don't allow young men to stumble in that way in my
+house. These two boys have suffered through your admitted clumsiness."
+Here Mr. Snug paused in a moment's thought. "Dick Shin," he continued,
+"I sent these innocent young gentlemen on two trips to Moody Barn--that
+makes four miles for Bigson and four miles for Harding, together making
+eight that they walked on your account. Now you may put down your
+fishing-pole, and 'stumble' along on the road to Judd's Bridge, which
+will give you two extra miles in which to think over your sins. And to
+make sure"--here Mr. Snug arose and went to the closet--"you may take
+this hatchet along with you, and bring me back a good big chip from the
+end of the long bridge beam. I shall ride over that way to-morrow and
+see whether it fits. You understand?"
+
+"Yes, sir," replied the injured voice of Dick Shin. "But, Mr. Snug,
+can't I put off that penance until Monday?"
+
+"No, sir," replied Mr. Snug, with a beaming smile and a bow of the head.
+"This is a lovely morning for contrite meditation. Go--_instantly_."
+
+Two hours later saw a demonstrative individual threatening to chop down
+the whole side of a bridge, while ten miles to the northward the placid
+surface of Waramaug rippled to the oars, and the lofty mountain-sides
+echoed with the shouts of a merry holiday.
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+But all things must have an end. The school-days ended, and so did this
+memorable vacation. A letter breaks the charm: insatiate publisher! Once
+more through the winding paths of the Housatonic, and I leave the
+loveliness of Hometown for the metropolis of brick and stone, there to
+resume the old routine.
+
+
+
+
+AUTUMN.
+
+[Illustration: THE WANING]
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+I am sitting alone upon a wooded knoll at our old farm at Hometown.
+Above me a venerable oak holds aloft its dome of bronze-green verdure,
+and on either side the gnarled and knotty branches bend low, and trail
+their rustling leaves among the tufts of waving grass that fringe the
+slope around me.
+
+It is a spot endeared to me from earliest memory, a loved retreat whose
+every glimpse beneath the overhanging boughs has left its impress, whose
+every feature of undulating field, of wooded mountain, and winding
+meadow-brook I have long been able to summon up at will before my closed
+eyes, as though a mirror of the living picture now before me. And what
+is this picture?
+
+It is an enchanted vision of nature's autumn loveliness--a vision of
+peace and tranquil resignation that lingers like a poem in the memory.
+It is a glorious October day, one of those rarest and loveliest of days
+when all nature seems transfigured, when a golden, misty veil swings
+from the heavens in a charmed haze, through which the commonest and most
+prosaic thing seems spiritualized and glorified. The summer's full
+fruition is past and gone, the dross has been consumed; and in the
+lingering life, whose yielding flush now lends its sweet expression to
+the declining year, we see the type of perfect trust and hope that finds
+a fitting emblem in the dim horizon, where heaven and earth are wedded
+in a golden haze, where purple hills melt softly in the sky. It is a day
+when one may dream with open eyes, and whose day-dreams haunt the memory
+as sweet realities. The sky is filled with rolling, fleecy clouds, whose
+flat receding bases seem to float upon a transparent amber sea, from
+whose depths I look through into the blue air beyond.
+
+Below me an ancient orchard skirts the borders of the knoll. Its boughs
+are crimson studded, and the ground beneath is strewn with the bright
+red fruit. They mark the minutes as they fall, running the gauntlet of
+the craggy twigs and bounding upon the slope beneath. Beyond the orchard
+stretch the low, flat meadow lands, set with alders and swamp-maples,
+with swaying willows, now enclosing, now revealing the graceful curves
+of the quiet stream as it winds in and out among the overhanging
+foliage. Soon it is lost beneath a wooded hill, where an old square
+tower and factory-bell betray the hiding-place of the glassy pond that
+sends its splashing water-fall across the rocks beneath the old town
+bridge. Looking down upon this bridge, Mount Pisgah, with its rugged
+cliff, is seen rising bold and stern against the sky, above a broad and
+bright mosaic of elms and maples, spreading from the grove of oaks near
+by in an unbroken expanse, to the very foot of the precipice, with here
+and there a sunny cupola or gable peering out among the branches, or a
+snowy steeple lifting high its golden cross or weather-vane glittering
+in the sun. The mountain-side is lit up with its autumn glow of
+intermingled maples, oaks, and beeches, with its changeless ledges of
+jutting rock, and dense, defiant pines standing like veteran bearded
+sentinels in perpetual vigilance.
+
+All this comes to me in a single glimpse beneath the branches. But there
+are others, where undulating meadows, with their flowing lines of walls
+and fences, lead the eye through soft gradations to distant purple
+hills, through thrifty farms, with barns and barracks and rowen fields
+with browsing cattle, and ruddy buckwheat patches, where the flocks of
+village pigeons congregate among the cradle marks, in quest of scattered
+kernels shaken from the sheaves.
+
+There is a tiny lake near by that nestles among the hill-side farms,
+where sloping pastures and fields of yellow, rustling corn glide almost
+to the water's edge. So sensitive and sympathetic is this little sheet
+of water that I christened it one day Chameleon Lake, for it wears a
+different expression for every phase of season or freak of weather, and
+always dwells in harmony with the landscape which encloses it. In cloudy
+days it frowns as cold as steel. In days of sunshine it is as bright and
+blue as the sky itself, or shimmers like a shield of burnished silver.
+And now it is a flood of autumn gold, carrying from shore to shore a
+maze of ripples laden with opaline reflections of intermingled glints
+from cloud and sky, and of the gold and ruby colored foliage along its
+banks.
+
+But this knoll and all these farms are not mine alone. They are such as
+I should hope might lurk in the memory of almost any one who looks back
+to early days among New England hills.
+
+[Illustration: AN OCTOBER DAY.]
+
+This old oak-tree, whose furrowed bark I lean upon, was a hardy
+patriarch when first I sought its shade. Its added years have scarcely
+changed a feature or modified a line in its old-time noble expression.
+As I look up, its great open arms spread out against the sky exactly as
+they did when I lolled beneath their shelter and watched the drifting
+clouds of twenty years ago sail through them in the blue above. Even the
+jagged furrows in the bark I seem to recognize. Here, too, is that same
+spreading scale of greenish lichen that fain will grow upon the trunk,
+as if I had not often picked it all to pieces in my early idling. The
+same round oak-gall rests on the bed of leaves in the hollow between the
+rocks near by, as though it had forgotten how a dozen years ago I
+cracked its polished shell and sent its spongy contents to the winds.
+
+And here comes that veritable ant creeping through the grass at my
+elbow--now on the root, now on the bark, exploring every crack and
+crevice in his hurried search. I wonder if the little fellow will ever
+find what he has been looking for so long. And here's a friend of his
+coming down. They stop and wag their antennae in a moment's conversation.
+I wonder what they said. I always _did_ wonder when I watched them do
+the same thing on this very spot a score of years ago. The soft waving
+grass whispers about my ears as it did then, and I hear the low trumpet
+of the nuthatch as he creeps about in the tree o'erhead. Easily may one
+forget the lapse of time in such a place as this, where every leaf, and
+twig, and blade of grass conspire to breed forgetfulness of later years.
+Hark! that shrill tattoo again! The tree-toad. Yes, that same recluse in
+his mysterious hiding-place, seeking by his tantalizing trill to renew
+that game of hide-and-seek we left off so long ago--in those eager days
+when every stick and stone upon the knoll was overturned in my zeal to
+find his whereabouts. There he goes again! louder and more shrill. But
+now I realize the effect of time, for I only sit and listen to his
+oft-repeated call. Formerly that sound was like a galvanic thrill that
+electrified every nerve and muscle in my physiology. No, I'll not hunt
+for you again, my musical young friend; besides, the odds would be
+against you now, for I know more about tree-toads than I once did, and
+you wouldn't see me hunting on the ground as in the olden days. Besides,
+you're getting bold; there is no need of hunting, for in that last toot
+you gave yourself away. Even now my eyes are fixed upon the hole in
+yonder hollow limb, and I see your tiny form clinging to the rotten wood
+within the opening. What _would_ I not have given _once_ to have thought
+of that soggy hole!
+
+[Illustration: A WAY-SIDE PASTORAL.]
+
+Near by a spreading yew monopolizes a rocky bit of ground, its foliage
+creeping above a silvery gray bed of branching moss, whose pillowy tufts
+spread almost to my feet. This was my fairy forest of tiny trees. Here I
+found the fairies' cups and torches, and even now I can see their
+scarlet tips scattered here and there among the gray; and fragile little
+parasols, too--it were an insult, indeed, to designate such dainty
+things as these by the name of toadstools. Beyond this bed of moss a
+scrubby growth of whortleberry takes possession of the ground. The
+bushes are now bare of fruit, but ruddy with their autumn blushes,
+tingeing the surface of the knoll with a delicate coral pink. This
+thicket extends far down upon the slope, even encroaching upon the
+wheel-ruts of the lane, and across again, until cut short by an ancient
+tumbling line of lichen-covered stones, a landmark which has long since
+yielded up its claim as a barrier of protection to the old orchard it
+encloses, now only a moss-grown pile, with every chink and crevice a
+nestling-place of some searching tendril, fern, or clambering vine. For
+rods and rods it creeps along beneath the laden apple-trees, skirting
+the borders of this old farm lane, and finally hides away among a clump
+of cedars a few hundred feet away.
+
+Of all the picturesque in nature, what is there, after all, that so wins
+one's deeper sympathies as the ever-changing pictures of a rustic lane
+or roadside, with its weather-beaten walls and fences, and their
+rambling growth of weeds and creeping vines? How sweet the sense of near
+companionship awakened by these charming way-side pastorals that
+accompany you in your saunterings, and reach out to touch you as you
+pass--a sense of friendly fellowship that breathes a silent greeting in
+the most deserted paths or loneliest of by-ways!
+
+Show me a ruined wall or a rutted zigzag fence, and I will show you a
+string of pearls, or rather, if in these later months, a fringe of gems,
+for the autumn fence is set in wreaths of rubies and glowing sapphires.
+Follow its rambling course, now through the field, now skirting swampy
+fallows, now by rustic lanes and cornfields and over rocky pastures, and
+you will follow a lead that will take you through the rarest bits of
+nature's autumn landscape.
+
+Even in this lane, at the foot of the knoll below us, see the brilliant
+luxuriance of clustered bitter-sweet draping the side of that clump of
+cedars! It is only an indication of the beauty that envelops this lane
+for a full half mile beyond. Every angle of its rude rail fence encloses
+a lovely pastoral, each a surprise and a contrast to its neighbor.
+
+Right here before us, what a beginning! Hold up your hands on either
+side, and shut out the surroundings. Such is the glimpse I always long
+to paint from nature, and yet how almost maddening is the result! Rather
+would I drink it all in and fix its every feature in my mind, and paint
+it from its memory, when the presence of the living thing before me
+shall not mock my efforts and put to shame the crude creations of oil
+and pigment.
+
+See how the cool gray rails are relieved against that rich dark
+background of dense olive juniper, how they hide among the prickly
+foliage! Look at that low-hanging branch which so exquisitely conceals
+the lowest rail as it emerges from its other side, and spreads out among
+the creeping briers that wreathe the ground with their shining leaves
+of crimson and deep bronze! Could any art more daringly concentrate a
+rhapsody of color than nature has here done in bringing up that gorgeous
+spray of scarlet sumach, whose fern-like pinnate leaves are so richly
+massed against that background of dark evergreens? And even in that
+single branch see the wondrous gradation of color, from purest green to
+purplish olive, and olive melting into crimson, and then to scarlet, and
+through orange into yellow, and all sustaining in its midst the
+clustered cone of berries of rich maroon! Verily, it were almost an
+affront to sit down before such a shrine and attempt to match it in
+material pigment. A passing sketch, perhaps, that shall serve to aid the
+memory in the retirement of the studio, but a careful copy, _never!_
+until we can have a tenfold lease of life, and paint with sunbeams. But
+there is more still in this tantalizing ideal, for a luxuriant wild
+grape-vine, that shuts in the fence near by, sends toward us an
+adventurous branch that climbs the upright rail, and festoons itself
+from fence to tree, and hangs its luminous canopy over the crest of the
+yielding juniper. Even from where we stand we can see the pendant
+clusters of tiny grapes clearly shadowed against the translucent golden
+screen. Add to all this the charm of life and motion, with trembling
+leaves and branches bending in the breeze, with here and there a
+flitting shadow playing across the half hidden rails, and where can you
+find another such picture, its counterpart in beauty--where? perhaps its
+very neighbor, for all roadside pictures are "hung upon the line," they
+are all by the same great Master, and it is often difficult to choose.
+
+Here we have a contrast. A dappled rock has taken possession of this
+little corner, or the corner has been built around it, if you choose--a
+"gray" rock we would call it in common parlance, but it is a gray
+composed of a checkered multitude of tints, colors which upon a rock, it
+would seem, were hardly worth an appreciative glance; but only let them
+be exhibited upon a fold of Lyons silk or Jouvin kid glove, and dignify
+them by the compliments of "ashes of roses," or "London smoke," and how
+eagerly they are sought, how exquisite they become. I speak in
+moderation when I say that I have often sat and counted as many as
+thirty just such tints upon the surface of a small "gray" rock, each
+_distinct_, and all so _refined_ and exquisite in shade. This rounded
+bowlder is no exception; and with its tufted spots of jetty moss, and
+outcroppings of glistening quartz, its rounded, spreading blots of
+greenish lichens, and mottled groundwork, it may well defy the craft of
+the most skilled palette. And when these grays are contrasted with
+tender yellow greens and browns of fading ferns, such as fringe the
+borders of the one before me, with a background of scarlet whortleberry
+bushes and deep-green sprays of blackberry clustering about the
+loosening bark of a crumbling stump, with its shelving growth of fungus
+hiding among its brown debris, one may well pause and wonder which to
+choose, or where a single touch is wanting in the perfect unity and
+harmony of either.
+
+[Illustration: WAIFS.]
+
+Another jutting corner, and we confront a swaying mass of gold and
+purple--that magnificent regal combination of graceful golden-rod and
+asters that glorifies our autumn from September to the falling leaf.
+There are a number of species of golden-rod, varying as much in their
+intensity of color as in their time of bloom. The earliest appear in the
+heart of summer, in wood and meadow; while others, larger and more
+stately, lift up in their midst their plumy, undeveloped tips, and wait
+until their predecessors are old and gray ere they roll out their
+wreaths of gold. For weeks the roads and by-ways have been lit up with
+their brilliant glow, that parting sunset gleam that lingers with the
+closing year. This splendid cluster is full six feet in height, and
+towers above the highest rail, or rather where the rail ought to be, for
+it is lost from sight beneath a dense fret-work of prickly smilax--and
+such brilliant, polished leaves! how they glitter in the sun! almost as
+though wet with dew.
+
+And to think how those prickly canes, denuded of their leaves, are sold
+upon our city thoroughfares as "Spanish rose-trees" to the unsuspecting
+passer-by! Those guileless venders, too! I remember one that sought to
+enrich my store of botanical knowledge by telling me they "bloomed in
+winter!" and had a flower as "big as a saucer," and "kinder like a holy
+hawk!!!?" I looked him straight in the eye, but he was the picture of
+innocence. "Can you tell me the botanical name," I asked. "Oh yes," he
+glibly replied, "I think they call it the _Rubus epistaxis_." Eheu! but
+this was _too much_, and he saw it, and with a wink of his foxy eye and
+a shrewd grin, he whispered along the palm of his hand, "Got to git a
+livin' _somehow_, boss; now _don't_ give me away." "Here you are, lady,
+Spanish roses, lady, fresh from the steamer." I never see a thicket of
+green-brier without thinking of its "winter blossom;" and, by-the-way,
+did you ever notice a thicket of this shrub, what a defiant, arbitrary
+tyrant it is--shutting out the very life-breath and light of day from
+its encumbered victims, monopolizing everything within its power, and
+even reaching out for more with searching tips in mid-air, and a couple
+of greedy tendrils at every leaf? And did you ever notice along the road
+that delicious whiff that comes to you every now and then, that pungent
+breath of the sweet-fern? We get it now; the air is laden with it from
+the dark-green beds across the road. The sweet-fern, as I remember it,
+was the simpler's panacea and the small boy's joy--an aromatic shrub,
+whose inhaled fumes, together with its corn-silk rival, seem destined by
+an all-wise Providence as a preparatory tonic to the more ambitious
+fumigation of after-years. Many a time have I sat upon this bank and
+tried to imagine in my domestic product the racy flavor of the famed
+Havana!
+
+Between old Aunt Huldy, with her mania for the simples, and the demand
+of the village boys, I wonder there is any of it left. But Aunt Huldy
+has long since died; all her "yarbs," and "yarrer tea," and "paowerful
+gud stimmilants" could not give her the lease of eternal earthly life
+which she said lurked in the "everlastin' flaowers;" and after she had
+reached the age of one hundred and three, her tansy decoctions and
+boneset potions ceased in their efficacy--the feeble pulse grew feebler,
+and one winter's eve, sitting in her rocker by her kettle and andirons,
+she fell into a deep sleep, from which she never awoke. Aunt Huldy was
+as strange and eccentric a character as one rarely meets in the walks of
+life. Some said she was crazy; others said she was a witch; but
+whatever she may have been, this aged dame was picturesque with her bent
+figure, her long white hair and scarlet hood. And who shall describe the
+ancient withered face that looked out from the shadow of that hood, the
+small gray eyes and heavy white eyebrows, the toothless jaws and
+receding lips, and massive chin that made its appalling ascent across
+the face? But I cannot describe that face: think of how a witch should
+look, and old Huldy's features will rise up before you. She knew every
+herb that grew, but her great stand-by was "sweet-fern:" she smoked it,
+she chewed it, she drank it, and even wore a little bag of it around her
+neck, "to charm away the rheumatiz."
+
+[Illustration: IN THE CORNFIELD.]
+
+Since her time, however, the sweet-fern has had a chance to recuperate,
+and, as far as we can see along the road, the banks are covered with it;
+and there's a clump of teazles in its midst! I wonder if that old
+carding-mill still stands. You also, perhaps, will wonder what relation
+can exist between the two, that should make my thoughts jump half a
+mile at the sight of a roadside weed. But that old woollen-mill offered
+a premium on the extermination of one weed at least, for all the teasels
+of the neighborhood were required to keep its cloth brushes in thorough
+repair; but I fear its buzzing wheels are silent, for in olden times no
+such splendid clump as this could have remained to go to seed upon the
+highway. This old mill lies right upon our path, only a short walk down
+the road beyond. It nestles among a bower of willows in a picturesque
+ravine known as the "Devil's Hollow"--an umbrageous, rocky glen, by far
+too cool and comfortable a place to justify the name it bears.
+
+Following the road, we now descend into a long, low stretch, hedged in
+between two tall banks of alder, overtopped with interwoven tangles of
+clematis, with its cloudy autumn clusters--that graceful vine which,
+like the dandelion, is even more beautiful in death than in the fulness
+of its bloom. And so, indeed, are nearly all those plants whose final
+state is thus endowed by nature with feathery wings to lift them from
+the earth.
+
+When has this swamp milk-weed by the roadside looked so fair as now,
+with its bursting pods and silky seeds--those little waifs thrown out
+upon the world with every passing breeze. How tenderly they seem to
+cling to the little cosy home where they have been so snugly cradled and
+protected; and see how they sail away, two or three together, loth to
+part, until some rude gust shall separate them forever.
+
+And here's the great spiny thistle, too, that armed highwayman with
+florid face and pompon in his cap. But he has had his day, and now we
+see him old and seedy; his spears are broken, and his silvery gray hairs
+are floating everywhere and glistening in the sun.
+
+Now we leave the alders, and another roadside mosaic of rich color opens
+up before us, where the old half-wall fence, with its overtopping rails,
+is luminous with a crimson glow of ampelopsis. It covers all the stones
+for yards and yards; it swings from every jutting rail; it clambers up
+the tree trunks and envelops them in fire, and hangs its waving fringe
+from all the branches.
+
+Above the wall, like an encampment of thatched wigwams, the corn-shocks
+lift their heads; a prospecting colony encamped among a field rich with
+outcroppings of gold--a wealth of great round nuggets all in sight. And
+were we to tear away that thatch, we might see where they have stowed
+away their accumulated grains of wealth. We hear their rustling
+whispers: "Hush! hush!" they seem to say to each other as we approach;
+but their wariness is gratuitous, for a tell-tale vine is creeping away
+upon the fence near-by, and has stopped to rest its golden burden on the
+summit of the wall, half hiding among the scarlet creepers.
+
+Here yellow brakes abound, spreading their broad, triangular fronds on
+every side amid the brilliant berries of wild-rose, and pink leaves of
+blueberry. And here are thickets of black-alder, where every twig is
+studded with scarlet beads, that cling so close that even winter's
+bluster cannot shake them off. No matter where we look in these October
+days, nature is burning itself away in a blaze of color that dazzles the
+eyes; and now we approach its very crowning touch.
+
+I wish every one might see this gorgeous combination of oak and maples;
+see it and go no farther, for a further search were fruitless in finding
+its equal. It is the pride of the entire community; towns-people and
+visitors ride from miles around to see its final flush--a magnificent
+climax in the way of concentration of vivid color, in which nature seems
+to have grouped with distinct purpose and design, producing a piece of
+natural landscape-gardening such as no art could have approached. The
+background is a massive precipice of rock towering to the height of
+eighty feet, itself a perfect medley of tone.
+
+The group is composed of eight maples, each a distinct contrast of pure
+color. In their midst a superb large oak presents one massive breadth of
+deep purple green; and spreading up one side like a flood of yellow
+light, a rock-maple lifts its splendid array of foliage. These two trees
+concentrate the effect, and the others are arranged around them like
+colors on a palette: one is a flaming scarlet, another beside it is
+always a rich green, even to the falling leaf--with only a single
+branch, that every year, even as early as August, persists in turning to
+a peculiar salmon pink; another, a red-maple, is so deep a red as to
+appear almost maroon, and its branches intermingle with the pale-pink
+verdure of another growing by its side. There is one that combines every
+intermediate color, from deep crimson to the palest saffron; while its
+neighbor flutters in the wind with every leaf a brilliant butterfly of
+pure green, with spots and splashes of deep carmine.
+
+This whole assemblage of color fairly blazes in the landscape, and even
+from the top of Mount Pisgah, a half a mile away, it looks like a
+glowing coal dropped down upon a bed of smouldering ashes in the valley;
+for the surrounding meadow is thick-set with great gray rocks and
+crimson viburnum, as though it had caught fire from the flaming trees.
+What other country can boast the glory of a tree which, taken all in
+all, can hold its own beside our lovely maple? From the time when first
+it hangs its silken tassels to the awakening spring breeze until its
+autumn fire has burned away its leaves, it presents an everchanging
+phase that lends a distinct expression to American landscape. It affords
+us grateful shade in summer; and with its trickling bounty in the spring
+we can all unite in a hearty toast, "A health to the glorious maple."
+
+[Illustration: THE ROAD TO THE MILL.]
+
+But there is another tree which should not be forgotten, and if once
+seen in a New England autumn landscape there is little danger of its
+escaping from the memory. Of course, I refer to the pepperidge, or
+tupelo, that nondescript among trees; for who ever saw two
+pepperidge-trees alike? They seem to scorn a reputation for symmetry, or
+even the idea of establishing among themselves the recognition of a type
+of character. Novelty or grotesqueness is their only aim, and they hit
+the bull's-eye every time. There is one I have in mind that has always
+been a perfect curiosity. Its height is fully seventy feet, and its
+crown is as flat as though cut off with a mammoth pair of
+pruning-shears. The central trunk runs straight up to the summit, from
+which it squirms off into six or seven snake-like branches, that dip
+downward and writhe among the other limbs, all falling in the same
+direction. One gets the impression, on looking at it, that originally
+it might have been a respectable-looking tree, but that in some rude
+storm in its early days it had been struck by lightning, torn up by the
+roots, and afterward had taken root at the top. The tupelo, whenever
+seen, is always one of our most picturesque trees, and a never-failing
+source of surprise, twisting and turning into some unheard-of shape, and
+seeming always to say, "There! beat that if you can!" Near the coast it
+assumes the form of a crazy Italian pine, with spindling trunk and
+massive head of foliage. Sometimes it divides in the middle, like an
+hour-glass, and again mimics a fir-tree in caricature; but he who would
+keep track of the acrobatic capers of the tupelo would have his hands
+full. Whatever its shape, however, its brilliant, glossy crimson foliage
+forms one of the most striking features of our October landscape.
+
+But I believe we were on the road to that carding-mill. We had almost
+forgotten it; and now, as we look ahead, we see the old lumber-shed that
+marks the upper ledge of Devil's Hollow. From this old shed a
+trout-brook plunges through a series of rocky terraces, now winding
+among prostrate moss-grown trunks, now gurgling through the bare roots
+of great white birches, or spreading in a swift, glassy sheet as it
+pours across some broad shelving rock, and plunges from its edge in a
+filmy water-fall. It roars pent up in narrow canyons, and out again it
+swirls in a smooth basin worn in the solid rock. At almost every rod or
+two along its precipitous course there is a mill somewhere hid among the
+trees--queer, quaint little mills, some built up on high stone walls,
+others fed with trickling flumes which span from rock to rock,
+supporting on every beam a rounded cushion of velvety green moss, and
+hanging a fringe of ferns from almost every crevice. And one there is in
+ruins, fallen from its lofty perch, and piled in chaos in the stream.
+There are saw-mills, and shook-mills, and carding-mills, seven
+altogether in this one descent of about three hundred feet. The water
+enters the ravine as pure as crystal; but in its wild booming through
+race-ways, dams, and water-wheels, it gradually assumes a rich sienna
+hue from the _debris_ of sawdust everywhere along its course. The
+interior of the ravine is musical with the trebles of the falling water
+and the accompaniment of the rumbling mills. Tiny rainbows gleam beneath
+the water-falls, and swarms of glistening bubbles and little islands of
+saffron-colored foam float away upon the dark-brown eddies.
+
+At last we reach the carding-mill, which is the lowest of them all--in
+every sense, it seems, for it is as I had feared: the flume is but a
+pile of brown and mouldy timbers in the bed of the stream, and the old
+box-wheel has rotted and fallen from its spokes, almost obscured beneath
+a rank growth of weeds. No sound of buzzing teasels, no rumbling of the
+water-wheel, no happy carder singing at his work: _nothing_--but a
+couple of boys, kneeling in a corner, sucking cider through a straw.
+Yes, the old mill has fallen from grace; but what else might one expect
+from a mill in "Devil's Hollow," where all its neighbors are engaged in
+making hogshead staves, and the very water has turned to ruddy wine?
+
+[Illustration: THE CIDER MILL.]
+
+The carding-machine is gone, and has given place to a rustic
+cider-press. A temporary undershot-wheel has been rigged beneath the
+floor, and a rude trough, patched up with sods, conducts the water from
+the stream.
+
+It is the same old cider-press we all remember, and with the same
+accessories. Here are casks of all sizes waiting to be filled, and the
+piles of party-colored apples spilled upon the floor from the farmers'
+wagons that every now and then back up to the open door. There is the
+same rustic harangue on leading agricultural topics, among which we hear
+a variety of opinions about that imaginary "line storm."
+
+"Seems to gi'n the slip this year," remarks one old long-limbed settler
+with a slope-roofed straw hat, "'n' I don't know zactly what to _make_
+on't; but I ain't so sartin nuther"--he now takes a wise observation of
+a small patch of blue sky through the trees overhead. "I cal'late we'll
+git a leetle tetch on't yit."
+
+"Likenuff, likenuff," responds another, with a squeaky voice; "the ar's
+gittin' ruther dampish, 'n' my woman hez got the rheumatiz ag'in. She
+kin alluz tell when we're goin' to git a spell o' weather; it's sure to
+fetch her all along her spine. But I lay _most_ store on them ar pesky
+tree-tuds. I heern um singin' like all possessed ez I wuz comin' through
+the woods yender; 'n' it's a sartin sign o' rain when them ar critters
+gits agoin', you kin depend on't."
+
+And now we hear all about the pumpkin and the corn crop, the potato
+yield, and the regular list of other subjects so dear to the rural
+heart.
+
+In a corner by themselves we see the pile of "vinegar nubbins"--a tanned
+and soft variety of apple--in all stages of variegation. The "hopper"
+receives the shovelfuls of fruit for the crushing "smasher," which again
+supplies the straw-laid press. We hear the creaking turn of the lever
+screw, the yielding of the timbers, and a fresh burst of the trickling
+beverage flowing from the surrounding trough into the great wooden tub
+below. Here, too, is the swarm of eager urchins, with heads together,
+like a troop of flies around a grain of sugar. Ah! what unalloyed bliss
+is reflected from their countenances as they absorb the amber nectar
+through the intermediate straw--that golden link that I have missed for
+many a year!
+
+Outside upon the logs the refuse "pumice-cheese" has brought together
+all the yellow-jackets and late butterflies of the neighborhood--butterflies
+so tipsy that you can pick them up between your fingers. I never went so
+far with the yellow-jackets, for they have a hotter temper, and don't
+like to be fooled with. Black hornets, too, are here, and they find a
+feast spread at their very door; for overhead, upon the beech, they
+have hung their paper house, like a gray balloon caught among the
+branches.
+
+[Illustration: "THE LINE STORM."]
+
+Now we hear a chatter and a scratching on the roof, where a pair of
+lively squirrels hold a game of tag; and ascending the rickety stairs
+into the loft above, we find the floor strewn with hickory-nuts, with
+neat round holes cut through on either side, and numberless shaggy
+butternuts, too, with daylight let into their recesses also. The boards
+and beams are covered with cobweb trimmings, laden with wool-dust; and
+as we approach a pile of rusty iron near the murky window, we hear a
+scraping of sharp claws, the dropping of a nut between the rafters, and
+now a wild scampering on the roof overhead. Before we have fairly
+recovered from our surprise, we notice a sudden darkening of a hole in
+the shingles close by, where, still and motionless, two inquisitive
+black eyes look down at us. We have intruded upon private property, for
+this is the home of the squirrels. No one can dispute their title, for
+these little squatters have occupied the premises and held the fort for
+nearly twenty years.
+
+They, too, have found forage close at hand, from the nut-grove upon the
+hill-side yonder--a yellow bank of foliage of clustered hickories and
+beeches, and rounded domes of chestnuts--a grove whose every rock and
+bush is my old-time friend; where there are "sermons in stones," and
+every tree speaks volumes.
+
+Here is the low thicket of weeds and hazel-bushes where we always
+flushed that flock of quail, or started up some lively white-tailed hare
+that jumped away among the quivering brakes and golden-rod. Here are
+soft beds of rich green moss, studded with scarlet berries of
+winter-green and partridge-vine. Now we come upon a creeping mat of
+princess-pine, and here among the leaves we had almost stepped upon a
+spreading chestnut-burr--that same burr I have so often seen before,
+that same fuzzy, open palm holding out its tempting bait to lure the
+eagerness of youth; an eagerness which always invested a neighbor's
+chestnuts with a peculiar charm too tempting to resist; "take one," it
+seems to say, as it did in years ago; and its hedge of thorny prickles
+truly typifies the dangers which surrounded such an undertaking, for
+these trees belong to Deacon Turney, and he prizes them as though their
+yellow autumn leaves were so much gold. He guards them with an eagle's
+eye, and he gathers all their harvest; no single nut is ever known to
+sprout in Turney's woods if _he_ knows it.
+
+This pointed reminder among the leaves fairly pricks my conscience as I
+recall the many October escapades in which it formed the chief
+attraction. I remember one occasion in particular, for it is indelibly
+impressed on my memory, and it was on this very spot. A party of
+adventurous lads, myself among the number, were out for a glorious
+holiday. Each had his canvas bag across his shoulder, and we stole along
+the stone wall yonder, and entered the woods beneath that group of
+chestnuts. Two of us acted as outposts on picket guard; and another,
+young Teddy Shoopegg by name, the best climber in the village, did the
+shaking. He prided himself on being able to "shin up any tree in the
+caounty," and after he had once got up among those chestnut-trees we
+stood from under, and in a very short space of time no single burr was
+left among their branches. There were five busy pairs of hands beneath
+those trees, I can tell you, for each one of us fully realized the
+necessity of making the most of his time, not knowing how soon the
+warning cry from our outposts might put us all to headlong flight; for
+the alarm, "Turney's coming!" was enough to lift the hair of any boy in
+town.
+
+[Illustration: A POINTED REMINDER.]
+
+But luck seemed to favor us on that day; we "cleaned out" six big
+chestnut-trees, and then turned our attention to the hickories. There
+was a splendid tall shagbark close by, with branches fairly loaded with
+the white nuts in their open shucks. They were all ready to drop, and
+when the shaking once commenced, the nuts came down like a shower of
+hail, bounding from the rocks, rattling among the dry leaves, and
+keeping up a clatter all around. We scrambled on all fours, and gathered
+them by quarts and quarts. There was no need of poking over the leaves
+for them, the ground was covered with them in plain sight. While busily
+engaged, we noticed an ominous lull among the branches overhead.
+
+"'Sst! 'sst!" whispered Shoopegg up above; "I see old Turney on his
+white horse daown the road yender."
+
+"Coming this way?" also in a whisper, from below.
+
+"I dunno yit, but I jest guess you'd better be gittin' reddy to leg it,
+fer he's hitchin' his old nag 't the side o' the road. _Yis_, sir, I
+bleeve he's a-cummin'. Shoopegg, you'd better be gittin' aout o' this,"
+and he commenced to drop hap-hazard from his lofty perch. In a moment,
+however, he seemed to change his mind, and paused, once more upon the
+watch. "Say, fellers," he again broke in, as we were preparing for a
+retreat, "he's gone off to'rd the cedars; he ain't cummin' this way at
+_all_." So he again ascended into the tree-top, and finished his shaking
+in peace, and we our picking also. There was still another tree, with
+elegant large nuts, that we had all concluded to "finish up on." It
+would not do to leave it. They were the largest and thinnest-shelled
+nuts in town, and there were over a bushel in sight on the branch tips.
+Shoopegg was up among them in two minutes, and they were showered down
+in torrents as before. And what splendid, perfect nuts they were! We
+bagged them with eager hands, picked the ground all clean, and, with
+jolly chuckles at our luck, were just about thinking of starting for
+home with our well-rounded sacks, when a change came over the spirit of
+our dreams. There was a suspicious noise in the shrubbery near by, and
+in a moment more we heard our doom.
+
+"Jest yeu look _ee_ah, yeu boys!" exclaimed a high-pitched voice from
+the neighboring shrubbery, accompanied by the form of Deacon Turney,
+approaching at a brisk pace, hardly thirty feet away. "Don't yeu think
+yeu've got jest abaout _enuff_ o' them nuts?"
+
+Of course a wild panic ensued, in which we made for the bags and dear
+life; but Turney was prepared and ready for the emergency, and, raising
+a huge old shot-gun, he levelled it, and yelled, "Don't any on ye stir
+ner move, or by Christopher I'll blow the heels clean off'n the hull
+_pile_ on ye. I'd _shoot_ ye quicker'n _lightni'_."
+
+And we believed him, for his aim was true, and his whole expression was
+not that of a man who was trifling. I never shall forget the
+uncomfortable sensation that I experienced as I looked into the muzzle
+of that double-barrelled shot-gun, and saw both hammers fully raised
+too. And I can clearly see now the squint and the glaring eye that
+glanced along those barrels. There was a wonderfully persuasive power
+lurking in those horizontal tubes; so I at once hastened to inform the
+deacon that we were "not going to run."
+
+"Wa'al," he drawled, "it looked a leetle thet _way_, I thort, a spell
+_ago_;" and he still kept us in the field of his weapon, till at length
+I exclaimed, in desperation.
+
+"For gracious sake! point that gun in some other _way_, will you?"
+
+"Wa'al, _no_! I'm not fer pintin' it ennywhar else jest _yit_--not until
+you've sot them ar _bags_ daown agin, jist whar ye _got_ 'em, every
+_one_ on ye." The bags were speedily replaced, and he slowly lowered his
+gun.
+
+[Illustration: AFTER THE SHELL-BARKS]
+
+"Wa'al, naow," he continued, as he came up in our midst, "this is putty
+bizniss, _ain't_ it? Bin havin' a putty likely sort o' time teu, I sh'd
+jedge from the looks o' these 'ere _bags_. One--two--_six_ on 'em; an' I
+vaow they must be nigh on teu a half bushel in every pleggy _one_ on
+'em. Wa'al, naow"--with his peculiar drawl--"look eeah: you're a putty
+ondustrious lot o' _thieves_, I'm _blest_ if ye ain't." But the deacon
+did all the talking, for his manoeuvres were such as to render us
+speechless. "Putty likely place teu cum a-nuttin', ain't it?" Pause.
+"Putty nice mess o' shell-barks ye got thar, I tell ye naow.--Quite a
+sight o' _chestnuts_ in _yourn_, ain't they?"
+
+There was only one spoken side to this dialogue, but the pauses were
+eloquent on both sides, and we boys kept up a deal of tall thinking as
+we watched the deacon alternate his glib remarks by the gradual removal
+of the bags to the foot of a neighboring tree. This done, he seated
+himself upon a rock beside them.
+
+"_Thar!_" he exclaimed, removing his tall hat and wiping his
+white-fringed forehead with a red bandanna handkerchief. "I'm much
+_obleeged_. I've been a-watchin' on ye gittin' these 'ere nuts the hull
+arternoon. I thort ez haow yeu might like to know on't." And then, as
+though a happy thought had struck him, what should he do but
+deliberately spit on his hands and grasp his gun. "Look _ee_ah"--a
+pause, in which he cocked both barrels--"yeu boys wuz paowerful anxyis
+teu git _away_ from _ee_ah a spell ago. Naow yeu kin _git_ ez lively ez
+yeu pleze; your chores is done fer to-day." And bang! went one of the
+gun-barrels directly over our heads.
+
+We _got_, and when once out of gun-range we paid the deacon a wealth of
+those rare compliments for both eye and ear that always swell the boys'
+vocabulary.
+
+"All right," he yelled back in answer, as he transported the bags across
+the field. "Cum agin next year--cum agin. Alluz welcome! alluz welcome!"
+
+As I have already said, the deacon gathered all his nut
+harvest--sometimes by a very novel method.
+
+Who does not remember some such episode of the old jolly days? If it was
+not a Deacon Turney, it was some one else. I am sure his counterpart
+exists in every country town, and in the memory of every boyhood
+experience.
+
+We remember, perhaps, the sweet hazel-nuts which we gathered in their
+brown husks and spread to dry upon the garret floor, and how those
+mischievous mice avenged the deacon's wrongs as they invaded our
+treasured store, and transported it to the nooks and kinks among the
+rafters and beneath the floor. Then there were those rambles after
+"fox-grapes," and the "gunning" tramps, when we stole with cautious step
+upon the unseen "Bob White" whistling for us among the brush near by,
+when the startling _whirr_ of the ruffed grouse from almost under our
+feet sent an electric thrill up our backs and along our arms, even
+touching off the powder in our barrels unawares. There were box-traps in
+the woods, and snares among the copses, and lots of other mischief of
+which we would not care to tell.
+
+[Illustration: A CORNER OF THE FARM.]
+
+There was another little three-cornered nut that fell among the
+beech-trees where we held our October picnics, and the autumn beech
+forest I remember as a lovely woodland parlor. We sit upon a painted
+rock, in the shadow of a drooping hemlock, perhaps. Beyond, we look
+across among the smooth gray tree-trunks, where sidelong shadows softly
+stripe the matted leaves, with here and there a shining shaft of sunbeam
+lighting up the carpet, or a glinting spray of sun-tipped leaves that
+flicker above their shadows. The woods are filled with a luminous glow
+such as no summer forest ever knew--an all-pervading light which seems
+almost independent of the sunshine, as though living in the leaf itself.
+It floods the mottled bark, and transforms its ashy tints to softened
+autumn grays. It searches out the shadows of the evergreens, and throws
+its mellow glow upon the rocks among their recesses. It permeates the
+whole interior as though it were transfigured through a golden-colored
+glass.
+
+A quick, sharp whistle surprises you from the herbage near by, and a
+striped chickaree skips across the leaves and dives into his burrow at
+the foot of an old stump not far away. There are various other sounds
+that come to you if you sit quietly in a beech wood. Now it is a tiny
+footfall, a pat-pat upon the leaves, and a little brown bird is seen,
+hopping in and out among the undergrowth, scratching and pecking like a
+little hen among the leaf mould. Then comes a galloping sound, and you
+know there is a scampering hare somewhere about. And at last a peeping
+frog gains confidence, and starts up a trill somewhere behind you. He is
+soon joined by another, and still others, until a chorus of the shrill
+voices echoes among the trees, some from the around, some from the limbs
+overhead; and if you only sit perfectly still, you may hear a
+venturesome voice, perhaps, at your very elbow; for these little peepers
+are capricious songsters, and only sing before a quiet, attentive
+audience. Now a silly green katydid flits by, like an animated gauzy
+leaf; and quick as thought a kingbird darts out from the leaves
+overhead, hovers in mid-air for a second, and is away again; and
+luckless katydid wishes she _hadn't_.
+
+See the variety of beeches, too! Here are slender, dappled stems, clean
+and trim; and others, great giants with fluted trunks and gnarled roots,
+and with eccentric limbs reaching out in most fantastic angles; but all
+spreading above in a graceful, airy screen of intermingled tracery and
+sunlight, where slender branches bend and sway beneath the agile
+squirrel as he leaps from tree to tree, and the leaves clatter with the
+falling nuts. Behind us a soft fluttering of many wings betrays a
+slender mountain-ash, with its drooping clusters of berries, growing in
+an open, rocky space near by--where a flock of cedar birds assemble
+among the fruit, or scatter away amid the evergreens at your slightest
+movement. Turning your head in another direction, you can follow the
+course of an old farm-road that leads out upon a bright clearing,
+thick-set with light-green, feathery ferns. A few rods beyond, it makes
+a sudden downward turn through a dense grove of lofty pines and
+hemlocks. Here are "dim aisles" where dwell perpetual twilight--where no
+ray of sun has entered for well-nigh a century--only, perhaps, as it is
+brought down in a glistening sunbeam within the crystal bead of balsam
+upon some dropping cone. There is a solemn stillness in these stately
+halls, in which your very footfall is proscribed and hushed in the
+depths of the brown and silent carpet. There are old, venerable
+gray-beards here, and fallen monarchs lying prostrate among the rugged
+rocks; and here and there among the brown debris a fungus lifts its
+head, to tell of other generations that lie crumbling beneath the mould.
+Now among the lofty columns, like a magnificent illuminated window in
+some vast cathedral, comes a glimpse of the outer world with its autumn
+colors; and here the vaulted aisle soon leads us. We find a dazzling
+contrast; for in the sombre shadows of the pine-forest one readily
+forgets the month, or even the season. Here we approach a rippling
+trout-stream, and as we stop to rest upon its tottering bridge we look
+across a long brook meadow, where the asters screen the ground in
+mid-air in a purple sea--one of the rarest spectacles of autumn. But in
+this swamp lot there are presented a continual series of just such rich
+displays from spring-time till the winter.
+
+I know of no other place in which the progress of the year is so readily
+traced as in these swampy fallow lands. They are a living calendar, not
+merely of the seasons alone, but of every month successively; and its
+record is almost unmistakably disclosed. It is whispered in the fragrant
+breath of flowers, and of the aromatic herbage you crush beneath your
+feet. It floats about on filmy wings of dragon-fly and butterfly, or
+glistens in the air on silky seeds. It skips upon the surface of the
+water, or swims among the weeds beneath; and is noised about in myriads
+of tell-tale songs among the reeds and sedges. The swallows and the
+starlings proclaim it in their flight, and the very absence of these
+living features is as eloquent as life itself. Even in the simple story
+of the leaf, the bud, the blossom, and the downy seed, it is told as
+plainly as though written in prosaic words and strewn among the herbage.
+
+In the early, blustering days of March, there is a stir beneath the
+thawing ground, and the swamp cabbage-root sends up a well protected
+scout to explore among the bogs; but so dismal are the tidings which he
+brings, that for weeks no other venturing sprout dares lift its head. He
+braves alone the stormy month--the solitary sign of spring, save,
+perhaps, the lengthening of the alder catkins that loosen in the wind.
+April woos the yellow cowslips into bloom along the water's edge, and
+the golden willow twigs shake out their perfumed tassels. In May the
+prickly carex blossoms among the tussocks, and the calamus buds burst
+forth among their flat, green blades. June is heralded on right and left
+by the unfurling of blue-flags, and the eyebright blue winks and blinks
+as it awakens in the dazzling July sun.
+
+[Illustration: BEECH-NUTTING.]
+
+Then follows brimful August, with the summer's consummation of
+luxuriance and bloom; with flowers in dense profusion in bouquets of
+iron-weed and thoroughworts, of cardinal flowers and fragrant clethra,
+with their host of blossoming companions. The milk-weed pods fray out
+their early floss upon September breezes, and the blue petals of the
+gentian first unfold their fringes. October overwhelms us with the
+friendly tokens of burr marigolds and bidens; while its thickets of
+black-alder lose their autumn verdure, and leave November with a
+"burning bush" of scarlet berries hitherto half-hidden in the leafage.
+Now, too, the copses of witch-hazel bedeck themselves, and are yellow
+with their tiny ribbons. December's name is written in wreaths of snow
+upon the withered stalks of slender weeds and rushes, which soon lie
+bent and broken in the lap of January, crushed beneath their winter
+weight. And in fulfilment of the cycle, February sees the swelling buds
+of willow, with their restless pussies eager for the spring, half
+creeping from their winter cells.
+
+The October day is a dream, bright and beautiful as the rainbow, and as
+brief and fugitive. The same clouds and the same sun may be with us on
+the morrow, but the rainbow will have gone. There is a destroyer that
+goes abroad by night; he fastens upon every leaf, and freezes out its
+last drop of life, and leaves it on the parent stem, pale, withered, and
+dying.
+
+Then come those closing days of dissolution, the saddest of the year,
+when all nature is filled with phantoms, and the gaunt and naked trees
+moan in the wind--every leaf a mockery, every breeze a sigh. The air
+seems weighed with a premonition of the dreariness to come. The
+landscape is darkened in a melancholy monotone, and death is written
+everywhere. You may walk the woods and fields for hours without a gleam
+of comfort or a cheering sound. We hear, perhaps, the hollow roll of the
+woodpecker upon some neighboring tree; but even he is clad in mourning:
+it is a muffled drum, and the resounding limb is dead. You sit beneath
+the old oak-tree, but it is a lifeless rustle that grates upon your ear,
+while you listen half beseechingly for some cheering note from the
+robins in the thicket near; but they are coy and silent now, and their
+flight is toward the southern hills. A villanous shrike must needs come
+upon the scene: he alights upon a limb near by, with blood upon his
+beak. Murder is in his eye, and his mission here is death. And now we
+hear a noisy crow o'erhead: he perches upon a neighboring tree in hungry
+scrutiny. And what is he but carrion's bird, that revels in decay and
+death, with raiment black as a funeral pall? In the cold gray sky we see
+their scattered flocks blowing in the wind with sidelong flight, and in
+the field below that mocking cadaver, the man of straw, shaking his
+flimsy arms at them in wild contortions.
+
+[Illustration: THE NORTH WIND.]
+
+There is a hopeless despondency abroad in all the air, in which the
+summer medleys of the birds taunt us with their memories. We yearn for
+one such joyful sound to break the gloomy reverie. But what bird could
+swell his throat in song amidst such cheerlessness? No, Nature does not
+thus defeat her purpose. The hopefulness of Spring, the joyful
+consummation of Summer, have fled; their mission is fulfilled, and these
+are days for meditation on the past and future. All nature speaks of
+death; and there are voices of despair, and others eloquent with hope
+and trust. There are dead leaves that crumble into dust beneath our
+feet; but, if we look higher, there are others that conceal the promise
+of eternal life, where the undeveloped being, that perfect symbol,
+weaves his silken shroud, and awaits the coming of his day of full
+perfection. In the ground beneath he seeks his sepulchre, and he knows
+that at the appointed time he will burst his cerements and fly away.
+These are inobtrusive, silent testimonies; but they are here, and need
+only to be sought to unfold their prophecies.
+
+But there comes a respite even in these late gloomy days. There is a
+lull in the work of devastation, in which the sunny skies and magic haze
+of October come back to us in the charming dreaminess of the Indian
+summer. A brief farewell--perhaps a day, perhaps a week; but however
+long, it is a parting smile that we love to recall in the dreariness
+that follows. The sky is luminous with soft sun-lit clouds, and the hazy
+air is laden with spring-like breezes, with now and then a welcome
+cricket-song or light-hearted bird-note, for, although long upon their
+way, the birds have not yet all departed. They twitter cheerily among
+the trees and thickets, and should you listen quietly you perhaps might
+hear an echo of spring again in the warble of the robin upon the
+dog-wood-tree. Here they have loitered by the way among the scarlet
+berries. Not only robins, but cedar-birds and thrushes are here, in
+successive flocks, from morn till night.
+
+The fields are dull with faded golden-rods and asters, among whose downy
+seeds the frolicking chickadees and snow-birds hold a jubilee. The maze
+of twigs and branches in the distant hills has enveloped them in a smoky
+gray, and the sound of rustling leaves follows your footsteps in your
+woodland rambles. The fringe of yellow petals is unfolding on the
+witch-hazel boughs, and if you only knew the place, you might discover
+in some forsaken nook a solitary pale-blue lamp of fringed gentian still
+flickering among the withered leaves. Now a lively twittering and a hum
+of wings surprises you, and before you can turn your head a happy little
+troop of birds sweep across your path, and are away among the
+evergreens. They are white buntings, and their presence here is like a
+chill, for they come from the icy regions of the North, and they bring
+the snow upon their wings. The Indian summer is soon a thing of the
+past. Perhaps before another daybreak it will have flown. There is no
+dawn upon that morning. The night runs into a day of dismal, cheerless
+twilight, and the sky is overcast with ominous darkness. That angry
+cloud that left us, driven away before the conquering Spring, now lowers
+above the northward mountain; we see its livid face and feel its
+blighting breath--"a hard, dull bitterness of cold," that sweeps along
+the moor in noisy triumph, that howls and tears among the trembling
+trees, and smothers out the last smouldering flame of faded Autumn.
+
+The final leaf is torn from the tree. The lingering birds depart the
+desolation for scenes more tranquil, and I too with them, for nothing
+here invites my tarrying. The Autumn days are gone, grim Winter is at
+our door, and the covering snow will soon enshroud the earth, subdued
+and silent in its winter sleep.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+WINTER.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+[Illustration: THE SLEEP]
+
+[Illustration: A WINTER IDYL
+
+Prologue
+
+    A chill sad ending of a dreary day.
+      The waning light in stillness dies away.
+    Bequeaths no ray of hope the void to fill
+      But lends to gloomy thoughts more sadness still.
+    All nature hushed beneath a snowy shroud
+      Darkness and death their sovereign rule decree
+    O, reign of dread, of cruel blasts that kill
+      Thy cycle brings a heavy heart to me.
+    How many thus their Winter's advent view
+      Whose darkened faith no daylight ever knew.
+    Alas for him who thinks the grave his doom
+      Or sees the sun go down behind the tomb.
+    "Seek and ye shall find". On every hand
+      Mute prophecies their mission tell.
+    Yield but a listening ear and they shall say
+      'The dead but sleep, they do not pass away'
+    Else why mid earth and heaven on yonder tree
+      That type of life in death, the living tomb?
+    Why the imago from dark cerements free
+      Winging its upward flight from earthly gloom?
+    Why this device supreme unless a prophecy
+      Of resurrected life and immortality.
+    Oh thou whose downcast eyes refuse to seek
+      See! even at the grave the sign is given.
+    The snow-clad evergreen, eternal life
+      Clothed in celestial purity from heaven.
+    Even thus life's Winter should be blest
+      Not dark and dead but full of peace and rest.
+]
+
+
+Silently, like thoughts that come and go, the snow-flakes fall, each one
+a gem. The whitened air conceals all earthly trace, and leaves to
+memory the space to fill. I look upon a blank, whereon my fancy paints,
+as could no hand of mine, the pictures and the poems of a boyhood life;
+and even as the undertone of a painting, be it warm or cool, shall
+modify or change the color laid upon it, so this cold and frosty
+background through the window transfigures all my thoughts, and forms
+them into winter memories legion like the snow. Oh that I could
+translate for other eyes the winter idyl painted there! I see a living
+past whose counterpart I well could wish might be a common fortune. I
+see in all its joyous phases the gladsome winter in New England, the
+snow-clad hills with bare and shivering trees, the homestead dear, the
+old gray barn hemmed in with peaked drifts. I see the skating-pond, and
+hear the ringing, intermingled shouts of the noisy, shuffling game, the
+black ice written full with testimony of the winter's brisk hilarity.
+Down the hard-packed road with glancing sled I speed, past frightened
+team and startled way-side groups; o'er "thank you, marms," I fly in
+clear mid-air, and crouching low, with sidelong spurts of snowy spray, I
+sweep the sliding curve. Now past the village church and cosy parsonage.
+Now scudding close beneath the hemlocks, hanging low with their piled
+and tufted weight of snow. The way-side bits like dizzy streaks whiz by,
+the old rail fence becomes a quivering tint of gray. The road-side weeds
+bow after me, and in the swirling eddy chasing close upon my feet, sway
+to and fro. Soon, like an arrow from the bow, I shoot across the "Town
+Brook" bridge, and, jumping out beyond, skip the sinking ground, and
+with an anxious eye and careful poise I "trim the ship," and, hoping,
+leave the rest to fate.
+
+Perhaps I land on both runners, perhaps I don't; that depends. I've
+tried both ways I know, and if I remember rightly, I always found it
+royal jolly fun; for what cared I at a bruise, or a pint of snow down my
+back, when I got it there myself?
+
+The average New England boy is hard to kill, and I was one of that kind.
+Any boy who could brave the hidden mysteries and capricious favoritism
+of those fifteen dislocating "thank you, marms," and _hang together_
+through it all, and, having so done, finish that experience with a
+plunging double somersault into a crusted snow-bank, or, perchance, into
+a stone wall--if he can do this, I say, and survive the fun, then there
+is no reason why he should not live to tell of it in old age, for never
+in the flesh will he go through a rougher ordeal. I've known a boy who
+"_hated_ the old district school because the hard benches hurt him so,"
+and who would rest his aching limbs for hours together in this gentle
+sort of exercise. "The fine print made his eyes ache, and he couldn't
+study;" and yet when one day he comes home with one eye all colors of
+the rainbow, "it's _nothing_." "Consistency is a jewel." Boys don't
+generally wear jewels. But they are all alike. Boys will be boys, and if
+they only live through it, they will some day look back and wonder at
+their good fortune.
+
+At the foot of that long hill the "Town Brook" gurgles on its winding
+way, and passing beneath the weather-beaten bridge, it makes a sudden
+turn, and spreads into a glassy pond behind the bulwarks of the saw-mill
+dam. In summer, were we as near as this, we would hear the intermittent
+ring of the whizzing saw, the clanking cogs, and the tuneful sounds of
+the falling bark-bound slabs; but now, like its bare willows that were
+wont to wave their leafy boughs with caressing touch upon the mossy
+roof, the old mill shows no sign of life. Its pulse is frozen, and the
+silent wheel is resting from its labors beneath a coverlet of snow. Who
+is there who has not in some recess of the memory a dear old haunt like
+this, some such sleeping pond radiant with reflections of the scenes of
+early life? Thither in those winter days we came, our numbers swelled
+from right and left with eager volunteers for the game, till at last,
+almost a hundred strong, we rally on the smooth black ice.
+
+[Illustration: SNOW-FLAKES OF MEMORY.]
+
+The opposing leaders choose their sides, and with loud hurrahs we
+penetrate the thickets at the water's edge, each to cut his special
+choice of stick--that festive cudgel, with curved and club-shaped end,
+known to the boy as a "shinney-stick," but to the calm recollection of
+after-life principally as an instrument of torture, indiscriminately
+promiscuous in its playful moments. Were I to swing one of those dainty
+little clubs again, I would rather that the end were tied up in
+something soft, and that this should be the universal rule; otherwise I
+don't think I would play. I would prefer to sit on the bank and watch
+the sport, or make myself useful in looking after the dead and wounded.
+But to the "average New England boy" it makes a great deal of difference
+who swings the club, and what it is swung for. If it is whirled in
+_play_, and takes him with a blow that _ought_ to kill him, and _would_
+if he were not a boy, why then he laughs, and thinks it's good fun, and
+goes in and gets another. But if the parental guardian has any reason to
+swing a stick even one-tenth the size, the whole neighborhood thinks
+there is a boy being murdered. So much depends upon a name sometimes.
+
+[Illustration: THE OLD MILL-POND.]
+
+How clearly and distinctly I recall those toughening, rollicking sports
+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.
+
+Was ever perfume sweeter than that all-pervading fragrance of the
+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
+
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