полная версияPastoral Days; or, Memories of a New England Year
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,
