Part 1

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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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.