The Puddleford Papers Part 10

The gray of each morning was first heralded by a famous rooster, which I had imported from the east. He blew his clarion voice at about four, and I used to lie and hear its echoes wander away off through the streets of Puddleford, until they finally expired in the wilderness. He was usually answered by some half-awakened c.o.c.k, whose drowsy, smothered crow was quite ludicrous. Then he would give another blast--and get, usually, a snappish answer from some quarter, saying as well as it could be said--"Well, I know it--what of it?" Pretty soon, a braggadocio fellow would belch forth in a coa.r.s.e, sullen strain--"I've been-up-these-_two_-hours." This was followed, often, by the cracked voice of some nervous old fellow, away in another direction, declaring, "I rather guess you _h--a--i--n--t_." And so one after another, strain was added to strain, until the whole orchestra were blowing their horns in the face of opening day.

At sunrise, the blue-jays and other birds gathered about the door and garden, to pick the dry seeds that the weeds were shedding on the earth.

What are snow birds? Where do they live? See them chirping in yonder ray of sunlight--darting hither and thither, like motes in a beam of light. See them go whirling through the tempest, like angel spirits, beautiful in the very midst of the storm. What are they? Do they sleep on the wings of the wind, or hide themselves in a scroll of snow? How is it that these little singing harps live on amid such dreary scenes? The blue-jays, however, were very petulant. Their gorgeous summer plumage was exceedingly mussed, and they went about from bush to bush, and tree to tree, screaming and fretting at each other and themselves. They acted like so many Siberian prisoners, who were forced to brave the blasts as the penalty of some crime they had committed.

Sometimes, a keen, frosty night would be succeeded by a still, sunny day, when the eaves pattered their sleepy music, and the cows strayed away into the forest, as though they smelt approaching spring--when the cats flew out of the house, and chased each other up into the trees, and the dog went away by himself, wandering along the river-banks for reasons known only to himself.

These were visiting days, holidays, jubilee days, for those animals that were housed in trees, and burrowed in the earth. Go forth into the woods.

You may, on such a day, see the squirrel push out his head from the door of his castle, where he has been confined for a month, and cautiously look over the landscape--then dart in again. Soon he pushes himself out farther, and farther, and timidly glides down to the foot of the tree. Then he tries the snow, and then again, and finally goes cantering to the nearest stump, and chirruping, up he goes with a flirt, throws his tail over his back, sits down, and breaks forth into a burst of song.

Do you believe that squirrel remembers his last summer rambles in those woods--yon rivulet where he drank, now sleeping beneath its silver frost-work, and chanting its low, m.u.f.fled dirge--yon icy knoll, that stood, last June, a pyramid of flowers--yon hickory where he harvested his nuts?

Is his song for the present or the past?

Look a little farther--the solemn tread of the turkey--who is busy disinterring some of the buried mast of autumn. Such a day is a bright page in the winter life of the turkey. She comes forth from beneath the roots of upturned trees, from thickets or hollow logs, where she has been so long cowering and starving, to hail the blessed warmth. She dreamed away the summer, stalking about from wood to stream, and stream to wood--she pa.s.sed the provident squirrel often, in October, and saw him roll in his winter stores, but she didn't know why; and now she is shovelling the snow, scattering it right and left with her feet, with a melancholy twit! twit!

to get a kernel of bread.

Farther on is a little gorge sloping up from the brook, and on such days the snows melt off, and the banks grow warm, and the green gra.s.s s.h.i.+nes as brightly as it did in May. It is soft and spring-like _there_. The sunbeams seem to be all tangled together in that spot. There are cl.u.s.ters of winter birds sporting in this temple, and occasionally one breaks forth with a note or two of her last June's song, as though she were just tw.a.n.ging her harp to try its strings. They think those tangled sunbeams are the footfall of April, and so they chirrup, and flutter, and bow to them, and seem to ask where gentle May is, and when she is coming with her music and flowers.

Sometimes the fog from the river would freeze upon the trees during a night, and the sun would rise upon a forest all burst out into a white bloom. As the sun rose higher, the little particles glittered and flashed, and then it was a forest of silver--every shrub, every bush, every tree, was silver. The woods were a frozen poem--written in a night by invisible fingers, to be read for an hour or two, and then scattered away in s.h.i.+ning scales, forever. These natural changes and beauties were all that there were to attract attention, and arrest our out-door thoughts. How different is all this from the life of a resident of some large city--where the life of a man is read in the street--and where each day s.h.i.+fts its pictures with its revolution, like the changing colors of a kaleidoscope!

In-doors, however, was the domestic hearth. There were joys there that knew no winter. Wife and children--how many? I said _three_--but were there not more? There was the babe, the creeping infant, the tottering child, in each. The portraits of half a dozen children were daguerreotyped on my soul as I looked at one. But a part were dead!--the babe had died in the infant, and the infant in the child--not died, either, but one grace had faded into another, one beauty had risen upon the ruins of another, until the child was born where the infant perished, we know not when nor how. Instead of two, I always felt that I had a family of little ones about me.

And then, that old dog that had been with us for years, and shared our fortunes and misfortunes, always the same, under all circ.u.mstances--he was one of the family. He used to pioneer the children a half a mile to school, and wag his tail, and bid them "good morning," as he left them at the door.

He was also there in waiting, at night, to escort them home again. He used to walk around, over the farm, and examine this thing and that, as though he was half proprietor of the premises. He used to sleep during the long winter evenings by the fire, his nose between his fore paws, his hind legs stretched out full length, and dream of scouring the woods--first a tremor!

then a twitch! then a bark, and a leap! and looking up, and finding all a sham, away he would walk under the table, overwhelmed with mortification.

This dog never made any acquaintance among the Puddlefordians, nor _their_ dogs. He always stood aloof on his dignity, and if either approached too near, warned them away with a low growl. He was a n.o.ble Newfoundland, and prided himself upon his ancestry.

But there are little threads of beauty that penetrate every household, wherever it may be, and warm the heart. Those thoughts, and kind words, and remembrances, that fly back and forth, hundreds of miles, and keep the poorest hovel all a-glow. They are so many rays that converge there, and make a star. That sleepy old horse that brought in the mail once a week was a _blessed_ old horse, and bore upon his back treasures that far outweighed gold. That mail-bag, like all mail-bags, was full of pa.s.sions--love, hatred, and revenge--all kinds of courtesy, civility, politeness, sycophancy--some coa.r.s.eness and vulgarity, too; and when it burst, like a bomb, in the post-office, it covered some persons with a rainbow light, gave others a cold drench, overpowered still others, and turned many into so many raging madmen. The imprisoned conflicting elements that jogged along up hill and down dale, so cosily on that old horse's back, made strange work when they were let loose.

Mail days were bright days in our calendar. They came only once a week--but that day always brought something. We then sat down, wife, children, and all, and posted up the books of the past. The letters brushed off the dust from the pictures of distant friends that were hanging in our souls--and those pictures talked. Some were sick; some were married; some had gone to one place, some to another. They were sailing on the great current of life as well as we. We were all together, yet apart; and these letters were only a shaking of hands across the flood that divided us--the shuttle that wove our pa.s.sage into one.

And then the newspapers were something more to us than ever before. The jar and roar of the world, like music, was softened and mellowed by distance.

Advertis.e.m.e.nts grew valuable; and our little daughter Kate absolutely read a patent-medicine notice from end to end without smiling.

During the winter, my wife made a little "come-to-tea" gathering, for the purpose, as she said, of getting "better acquainted with her neighbors." We were living, as I have stated before, a little out of the village of Puddleford, and our opportunities for seeing its society were not very good. She invited Squire Longbow and wife (of course); Bates and wife; Turtle and wife; Mrs. Sonora Brown, Tom Beagle and his clique--in fact, it was got up "without distinction of party," as our house was neutral ground, never having thus far been the scene of a social fight. I set apart the day to attend to our guests.

The first lady who made her appearance was Mrs. Sonora Brown, who had walked out from Puddleford alone, and who hove in sight, pursuant to her invitation to come to tea, at about two P. M.

The snow was falling fast, and the wind quite rough, but Mrs. Sonora didn't mind that. She was covered with one of those plaid cloaks that were made twenty years ago, had on a pair of heavy brogan boots (sensible woman), a tight hood, and over that a red and white cotton handkerchief tied under her chin. The old lady sailed along through the gale as calmly and stately as a seventy-four. When she reached the door, she rapped and stamped, and gave a loud hawk, all of which she undoubtedly thought ought to announce her presence.

My wife opened the door. "Well," exclaimed Sonora, "you see I've come,"

giving her cloak a hearty shake, and scattering the snow about her.

"Glad--very glad to see you," replied my wife.

"I know'd you would be--that's just what I told 'em," continued Sonora; "you ain't so dreadfully stuck up out here as some folks tries to make believe, arter all."

"We are like most other people, I suppose," said my wife.

Sonora took off her hood, when her eyes fell upon me. "So, this your man?

I'd hearn tell on him, but never see'd him afore, near by--and there are the children! and that is your big looking-gla.s.s they tell'd about! The dear ma.s.sy on us," she exclaimed, "how nice!"

"Why, Mrs. Brown," said I, "you must recollect me: I was a juryman on the trial between Filkins and Beadle."

"Come to take a good look at you, and so you was; but I was so frustered that day that I didn't know which eend I stood on. How pesky sa.s.sy them 'turneys-at-la' are!" continued Mrs. Brown, as she seated herself in the big rocking-chair.

"Mrs. Brown, have you lived long in this country?" I asked.

"Why, bless your soul, yes! Didn't you know that? We come in from the 'Hio twenty years ago, and lived her 'fore there was anybody, nor nothing but bears and catamounts."

"How, in the world, did you manage to get through the country twenty years ago?" I asked.

"Well, it _was_ a pretty orful time," said the old lady; "it almost brings the tears into my eyes now to think on't. There was my husband and four children--Lem and Jim, and Molly and Bessy. Lem was about twenty, and Jim about fifteen, and Molly and Bessy ten and twelve; and we were all piled inter a big cover'd wagon, drawn by two yoke of cattle, with what little furniter we had; and in this kinder way we started for--I didn't know where."

"Where did you eat and sleep?" inquired I.

"We bunk'd in the wagon nights, and camp'd out to eat; and so we travelled for two months."

"But you got through all safe?" I said.

"No, we didn't," said she, heaving a sigh; "little Bessy died" (she wiped away a tear); "she got the measles somewhere on the road; and everybody was afraid of catchin' on 'em; and n.o.body would come near us, and so we had to stop and take care of her in the wagon the best way we could. We done all we could think of, but she kept growin' worse and worse, 'till one mornin'

she died."

"She died!" I repeated, feeling sad.

"And we had to bury her in a strange place--a high knoll in the woods by the road-side--and go away and leave her there alone. O, Mr. ----," she exclaimed, "I've dream'd a thousand times of that spot in the woods: what wouldn't I give if I could go and find it!"

"What did you do when you first arrived here?" I inquired.

"Why, it was all trees all over, everywhere, then. There warn't any houzens, nor any roads to travel on, nor no white folks but Venison Styles, and some other hunters who are gone away now; nor anything to live on; and nothin' to be heard nights but the varmints screamin'," said Mrs. Brown, laying down her knitting-work, and shoving up her spectacles with a convulsive twitch, for she was getting eloquent. "There warn't a pound of meat for fifty miles round--no pork for love nor money--and so we cut down a place, and built a log shanty, and liv'd on deer meat, for deers were as thick as hops all over."

"And what then?" said I.

"The next spring," she continued, "we cleared a couple of acres, and put it into taters, turnips, beets, and all kind-er garden sa.s.s; and then we girdled the trees on ten or twelve acres more, and in the fall we put this inter wheat, and in a year or so we began to live."

"And that large farm you live on, Mrs. Brown, is _the_ spot you first settled? Where are your children now?"

"They are round yet," said Sonora. "Jim teaches school, and spec'lates, and fiddles some, and _can_ doctor if he likes. Jim is the only genus in our family: he's as smart as _litenin'_; Lem is more staid and sober-like. He allers took to hum ch.o.r.es, fod'ring cattle, and such like-er things. He married Squire Nolet's darter; and they are pretty big folks--got carpets in their bed-rooms, and all _over_ the house--and he is now settled on a farm out on Horse-Neck Plains; and Jim is now doin' fust-rate."

"What became of Molly?"

"Molly made a bad go on't. She married a trav'ling singing-master--and I _do_ suppose," she exclaimed, "he is one of the most good-for-_nothin'

dogs_ in the whole settlement. I don't see how in _airth_ Molly ever took a notion to him: he hain't got no larnin'--he won't work--and _I_ don't like his _singin'_. I don't see what such critters are made for." (The old lady heaved a long sigh.)

There was a rap at the door, and Mrs. Bird, Mrs. Beagle, and Mrs. Snipes came in. These three ladies were inseparable. They visited together, and warred, as we have seen, upon the "up-street aristocracy" together. Mrs.

Bird, who was, as I have stated, a great sozzle about home, was now decked out with as many ribbons and streamers as a Maypole. She had mounted on her back a most tremendous bustle, and she bowed, and bobbed, and twitched about, as she saluted my wife, with all the airs and friskiness of a young girl. Mrs. Beagle was quite reserved.

"Why, bless you, Mrs. ----, how cold 'tis!" said Mrs. Bird. "My dear husband couldn't hardly think of lettin' me go out. Bird is _so_ particular, and allers so scared for fear'd sunthin' will happen to me.