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Pastoral Days; or, Memories of a New England Year
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.
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.
THE NORTH WIND.
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.
WINTER
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
