OUR new horse waxes fat. He takes kindly to his feed, and has already eaten himself into the shape of a bell-pear. As he was suffering from want of exercise, I loaned him, for a few days, to a neighbor, who was moving his chattels into a new house. He was quite serviceable for a time, and really would have done very well, but for a sudden return of his epilepsy as he was carrying a load of crockery. I think our neighbor has acquitted me of any malicious intention in letting him have the animal, but his wife always meets me with a smile as fine as a wire. In fact, she told Mrs. Sparrowgrass it was of no consequence, that it was all right, and she never would have thought of it at all, 147 if it had not been for an old family teapot that had belonged to her grandmother, that could not be replaced — “a thing, my dear, the family has always set a great deal of store by.” Confound the family teapot! If it were really so choice a piece of porcelain, what did they put it in the wagon for? Why didn’t they carry it by hand? I suppose we will have that broken teapot alluded to, every now and then, at village tea-parties, for years to come.
Our horse waxes fat. I had serious thoughts of parting with him once, but the person who was negotiating for him wanted me to take another horse in exchange, and pay him a sum of money to boot, which seemed to be, at least, as much as, if not more than, both horses were worth. Upon consultation with Mrs. S., I declined the trade.
Notwithstanding the continued warm weather, the leaves already manifest the visible approaches of autumn. Earliest of all, the velvet-podded sumach hangs its fringe of fire, here and there, in the heart of the deep old wood. Then the sugar-maples, golden at the top, and the deeper green leaves of the swamp-maple, are bound with a florid border. The printed foliage of the gum-tree comes 148 out with a chromatic spread of tints, and, around the trunks, and up in the heavy verdure of cedar and oak, the five-fingered creeper winds its threads of gleaming crimson. Countless little purple flowers scatter between the trees, and margin the roads; white asters, large and small, put forth their tufts of stars; and above them the golden rod waves in the wind its brilliant sceptre. Down by the plashy spring, the wild-rose thickets are densely spotted with round, red berries, beautiful to behold, and, if you look in the grass, you will often find a yellow jewel, a sort of wild lady’s-slipper.
But, oh, the glory of those grand old Palisades! Those bald, storm-splintered crags, that overlook the river! Far as the vision stretches, reach their grim, grey precipices, gorgeous, in autumnal tartan, to the waist, but bare, disrobed, and regal to the summit. Brave old thunder-mockers, they. I once suggested, to some of my neighbors, the propriety of having them white-washed, for appearance sake, but I do most heartily repent me of the irreverent jest. Truth to say, I had no intention in it, although the project was taken seriously, and as seriously objected to, partly on the ground that there were other things about the village, to be done, of more 149 pressing importance, and partly on account of the expense.
There is another hint of the coming of autumn; the evening music of the insect world hath ceased; the iterated chirp of the cricket, the love-lorn cry of Katy-did, and the long, swelling monotone of the locust, have departed. But we have brought forth, the antique andirons, and the winter-wood lies piled up in the shed, and, with the first crackle of the hickory, we shall hear, at least, one summer-voice, on the earth. We shall miss our beetles, though; we shall see not more of those window-visitors who used to bump against the centre-lamp and then go crawling, in a very improper way, over the table, with a segment of white shirt sticking forth from their nether garments behind. We shall miss our beetles. The swamps and ponds, too, are silent. The frogs no longer serenade us with their one-pronged jews-harps, and, oh, saddest of all, the birds! the summer birds! now pipe in other lands, and under alien skies.
Take it all in all, our garden, this season, has 150 redeemed itself. To be sure, our fruit-trees blossomed away their energies, attempting to make too much of a show in the spring. But we do not care a great deal for pears, and as one cherry-tree put out quite a respectable show of ox-hearts, we were content. As for musk and water-melons, we had much to brag of; and our potatoes have yielded an abundant crop of all sizes. When we get in our tomatoes, we shall feel pretty comfortable for the winter; at present, they are green, but thrifty.
It is a good thing to have an agreeable surprise, now and then, in the country. I have been tempted lately, by the fine moonlight evenings, to take short rides in the saddle by the haunted shores of the Nepperhan. I love to note the striking contrasts of massive foliage in deep shadow, silvery water in breaks and bends, a pond here, a mill-dam there, with its mimic cascade, and at times the red glare of a belated cottage window. I enjoy these rides, even at the risk of a tumble. And this custom was the cause of a pleasant surprise. One evening, I returned rather early from the river, on account of the fog, and tied our new horse under the shed, intending to ride him over to the stable at the usual hour. But finding some visitors at 151 home, the pleasure of conversation, in regard to the fall crops, beguiled me, and I went to bed, leaving the new horse tied under the shed. When I woke up the next morning he was gone. Some person had stolen him in the night. I do not believe he got very far with him before he found it was easier to get him away than to bring him back. At all events, he was off, and I paid his bill at the stable, to date, with great pleasure. At first I thought I would tell my wife, and then I concluded to keep the good news for a while, and break it to her gradually. There is a great deal in keeping a good thing to yourself for a while. You can turn it over and over in your mind, and enjoy, in anticipation, the effect it will produce when you come to relate it to another. This was too good, though, to keep very long. Here was a snub-nosed, blear-eyed, bandy, legged horse-thief, with a pocketful of oats, and a straw in his mouth, covertly sneaking off at midnight with an animal he did not know anything about — a horse that was an ostrich, in appetite only — a horse that would keep him, by night and by day, constantly busy, in doing nothing else but stealing his feed. A horse that was a weaver! And of all hard feeders, a weaver is the worst. A 152 weaver, that would stand weaving his head from side to side, like a shuttle, over the manger, eating away with a sinister look in his one eye expressive of —
It was too good to keep. Once or twice I came very near letting it out; but by great presence of mind I succeeded in keeping it in.
By and by it will be a great joke for somebody!
We have had a slight frost. The first tender touch of winter’s jewelled finger. A premonition, no more. How kindly the old dame moves in the country — how orderly. How cleverly she lays everything to sleep, and then folds over all her delicate drapery! It is a grand sight to see the snow driving across the rocky face of the Palisades. We shall welcome in the winter with pleasure. Sleep, little flowers, for a time; the kind old nurse will be beside your tiny cradles, and wrap you up softly in light blankets! Sleep, little hard-shell beetles, rest Katy-did, and you — nocturnal bugler, mosquito, rest!
We have had again warmer weather and fogs. We love to see a fog in the country. Look over 153 the wide expanse of the river, smooth as looking-glass — two miles across; see the morning sunlight on the eternal precipices. Look at the variegated foliage fused to lava under the thing screen of mist. It seems as if nature had poured down in floods of melted sulphur, vermilion, and orpiment. And now the slight veil sweeps away, and the round masses of vegetation jut forth in light and shadow. Once more we recognize the bare strip that indicates the course of the ROCK CATARACT! If you watch the summit now, you will see something. The blasters are at work with gunpowder. There! Puff number one! Up rolls the blue smoke, and hark at the echoes! You do not see the blown out mass, as it falls sheer down the barren cliff; but now watch the yellow cloud of dust that whirls along, as the huge fragment bounds, hundreds of feet below, over the steep sloping earth, until it buries itself, amid the uproar, at the very brink of the river. Follow its course to the city, and you will behold it, and its brethren, rising in massive piles of architecture; but look at the grand old rocks again, and tell if there be a scar or spot left, to indicate whence it fell. Strange that you cannot, for it is a great quarry that — over there.
154Not a person knows anything concerning the horse’s hegira, yet. Old Dockweed, the inquisitive old sand-piper, asked me, “how that horse was getting along with his heaves?” I replied, that he was getting on pretty well. I mean to ask Mrs. S., some day, how much she thinks my stable bill has been for the past week or two. How she will open her eyes, when I tell her that expense is at an end. And horse-shoes too; what a costly luxury a blacksmith is, in the country.
I shall leave home to-morrow, for a short-sojourn in Broome county with a friend. When I return, it will be time enough to tell Mrs. S. about our good luck. How surprised she will be.
It is a good thing to travel in the country — to go from one country place to another country place — to meet old friends with fresh welcomes, old hearths, and old wood, old side-boards, old wine, and, above all — old stories. I love an old story. There is no place where you will find so many old stories as in the country. Our village is full of old stories. They have a flavor of antiquity, too, that commends them always to the connoisseur. The old stories of Broome county have a rarer merit — some of them are good. How pleasant it was to sit with my old 155 friend by his hospitable hearth-stone, and enjoy the warmth of his fire, his wine, and his welcome! How pleasant it was to listen to his old stories, like the chime of some old bell, or the echo of some old song, bringing up again days, men, scenes, and scores of happy memories! How we went into the deep green cover to shoot woodcock; how I bagged my first bird; how we stopped at the spring, and could not find the flask, but we did not mean the powder-flask; how we got Mr. Pe pod to fire at the mark, but forgot to put the shot in his gun; and all about our old friends on the Susquehanna, the rides, the drives, the junketings — up above, where the broad river sweeps on behind the garden, or where the brook ramps over the rocks, and rambles musically down through the glen. Those, indeed, were fine old stories.
I love, too, to sleep in an old fashioned house — to hear the dew drip from the eaves at night, and the rustle of autumnal leaves around the porch — to wake with the cheery crow of the rooster, and the chirrup of the coffee-mill — to look forth from the low-browed window upon the early morning, and to see clouds, and hills, and ever so many rural 156pictures. It is a good thing to travel sometimes in the country.
When I returned home, I determined to break the whole matter to Mrs. Sparrowgrass about the horse. There is such a thing as keeping a secret too long from the partner of one’s bosom. This thought oppressed me. So, after I had deposited my over-coat and carpet-bag in the hall, I could scarcely keep the secret quiet until the proper moment. The children never seemed to be so pertinaciously curious as they did on the evening of my return. I think we should never refuse answering the questions children put to us, unless they ask questions it would be improper to answer. To tell the truth, I was not sorry when they were cased in their Canton-flannel long-drawers, and ready for bed. Then I had to tell Mrs. Sparrowgrass all about the journey; but first she had to tell me all about everything that had occurred during my absence. Then I commenced: “My dear,” said I, “do you know notwithstanding the extraordinary large crops this fall, that feed still remains very high?” Mrs. S., replied that she had neglected to speak of the horse; but as I had reminded her of it — “My dear,” said 157 I, interrupting her, “I know what you want to say. You want me to part with him, even if I give him away.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass replied that she did. “What,” I continued, “do you suppose he has cost me within the two past weeks?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass answered that I would find he had cost more than he was worth, twice over. “You think so, do you?” said I. “Then, my dear, I want to tell you something that will gratify and surprise you.” Then I followed it up: “In the first place, do you remember, about two weeks ago, that I returned home from a moonlight ride beside the romantic shores of the Nepperhan?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass replied that she remembered it. “Well, then, that night I tied our horse under the shed, and I forgot him. The next morning he was missing.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass requested me to go on.
There is a great deal, sometimes, in the manner of saying those two words, “go on.” It sometimes implies that you have arrived at the end of what you have to say, and that the other party has something yet to add. There was a pause.
“Go on,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “tell your story, and then let me tell mine!” “Wasn’t he stolen?” said I, beginning to fear that some news of an 158 unpleasant nature was in store for me. “I do not know whether he was stolen or whether he strayed away; but all events he has been found, my dear,” replied Mrs. S. “Where did they find him, Mrs. S.?” said I, feeling a little nervous. “In the Pound!” replied Mrs. Sparrowgrass, with a quiet, but impressive accent on the last word. “In the pound!” I echoed, “then, Mrs. S., we will leave him in the hands of the village authorities.” “Bless me!” replied Mrs. S., “I had him taken out immediately, so soon as I heard of it. Why you would not have your horse kept in the pound, my dear, for everybody to make remarks upon? He is in the stable, my dear, and as fat as ever; the man that keeps him said it would do you good to see him eat the first day he got back. You will have to pay a pretty nice bill, though. There are the fees of the pound-master, and the damages to the Rev. Mr. Buttonball, for breaking into his carrot patch, where he was found, and then you will have to get a new saddle and bridle, and” ———
“Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I, interrupting the catalogue of evils, by putting up my hand with the palm turned toward her like a monitor, “Mrs. S., there are times when trifles occupy too conspicuous 159 a position in the human mind. Few people lose their night’s rest from a superabundance of joy, but many suffer from a species of moral nightmare. Do not let this matter, then, give you any more uneasiness.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said it did not give her any uneasiness at all. “If this wretched animal is again upon our hands, we must make the best of him. While I was away, I heard in the country there was a prospect of oats not being able to keep up this winter. Next year we can put him out to pasture. I also learn that a new and fatal disease has broken out among horses lately. We must hope, then, for the best. Let us keep him cheerfully, but do not let us be haunted with him. He is, at least, a very nice looking animal, my dear. Excuse me a moment ——