Part 13

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.

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.

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.

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?”

“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!”

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.

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?

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!