p529-022 CHAPTER I.

Living in the Country—Rural Anticipations—Early Rising—Baked Hippopotami—
Our New Chickens—A Discovery—The Advantages of having a Watch-Dog
in the Country—A Finale to the First Garden, and Unpleasant Prospects for
the Future.

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It is a good thing to live in the country. To
escape from the prison-walls of the metropolis—
the great brickery we call “the city”—and to live
amid blossoms and leaves, in shadow and sunshine,
in moonlight and starlight, in rain, mist, dew,
hoar-frost, and drouth, out in the open campaign,
and under the blue dome that is bounded by the
horizon only. It is a good thing to have a well
with dripping buckets, a porch with honey-buds,
and sweet-bells, a hive embroidered with nimble

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bees, a sun-dial mossed over, ivy up to the eaves,
curtains of dimity, a tumbler of fresh flowers in
your bedroom, a rooster on the roof, and a dog
under the piazza.

When Mrs. Sparrowgrass and I moved into the
country, with our heads full of fresh butter, and
cool, crisp radishes for tea; with ideas entirely
lucid respecting milk, and a looseness of calculation
as to the number in family it would take a
good laying hen to supply with fresh eggs every
morning; when Mrs. Sparrowgrass and I moved
into the country, we found some preconceived
notions had to be abandoned, and some departures
made from the plans we had laid down in the little
back-parlor in Avenue G.

One of the first achievements in the country is
early rising! with the lark—with the sun—while
the dew is on the grass, “under the opening eyelids
of the morn,” and so forth. Early rising!
What can be done with five or six o'clock in town?
What may not be done at those hours in the
country? With the hoe, the rake, the dibble, the
spade, the watering-pot? To plant, prune, drill,
transplant graft, train, and sprinkle! Mrs. S. and
I agreed to rise early in the country.

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“Richard and Robin were two pretty men,
They laid in the bed till the clock struck ten:
Up jumped Richard and looked at the sky:
O Brother Robin! the sun's very high!”
Early rising in the country is not an instinct; it is
a sentiment, and must be cultivated.

A friend recommended me to send to the south
side of Long Island for some very prolific potatoes—
the real hippopotamus breed. Down went my
man, and what, with expenses of horse-hire, tavern
bills, toll-gates, and breaking a wagon, the hippopotami
cost as much apiece as pine-apples. They
were fine potatoes, though, with comely features,
and large, languishing eyes, that promised increase
of family without delay. As I worked my own
garden (for which I hired a landscape gardener, at
two dollars per day, to give me instructions), I
concluded that the object of my first experiment in
early rising should be the planting of the hippopotamusses.
I accordingly rose next morning at five,
and it rained! I rose next day at five, and it
rained! The next, and it rained! It rained for
two weeks! We had splendid potatoes every day
for dinner. “My dear,” said I to Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
“where did you get these fine potatoes?'

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“Why,” said she, innocently, “out of that basket
from Long Island!” The last of the hippopotamusses
were before me, peeled, and boiled, and
mashed and baked, with a nice thin brown crust
on the top.

I was more successful afterwards. I did get
some fine seed-potatoes in the ground. But something
was the matter: at the end of the season, I
did not get as many out as I had put in.

Mrs. Sparrowgrass, who is a notable house wife,
said to me one day, “Now, my dear, we shall soon
have plenty of eggs, for I have been buying a lot
of young chickens.” There they were, each one
with as many feathers as a grasshopper, and a
chirp not louder. Of course, we looked forward
with pleasant hopes to the period when the first
cackle should announce the milk-white egg,
warmly deposited in the hay which we had provided
bountifully. They grew finely, and one day
I ventured to remark that our hens had remarkably
large combs, to which Mrs. S. replied, “Yes
indeed, she had observed that; but if I wanted to
have a real treat, I ought to get up early in the
morning and hear them crow.” “Crow!” said I,
faintly, “our hens crowing! Then, by `the cock

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that crowed in the morn, to wake the priest all
shaven and shorn,' we might as well give up all
hopes of having any eggs,” said I; “for, as sure as
you live, Mrs. S., our hens are all roosters!” And
so they were roosters! that grew up and fought
with the neighbors' chickens, until there was not a
whole pair of eyes on either side of the fence.

A dog is a good thing to have in the country. I
have one which I raised from a pup. He is a
good, stout fellow, and a hearty barker and feeder.
The man of whom I bought him said he was
thorough-bred, but he begins to have a mongrel
look about him. He is a good watch-dog, though;
for the moment he sees any suspicious-looking person
about the premises, he comes right into the
kitchen and gets behind the stove. First we kept
him in the house, and he scratched all night to get
out. Then we turned him out, and he scratched
all night to get in. Then we tied him up at the
back of the garden, and he howled so that our
neighbor shot at him twice before day-break.
Finally, we gave him away, and he came back;
and now he is just recovering from a fit, in which
he has torn up the patch that has been sown for
our spring radishes.

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A good, strong gate is a necessary article for
your garden. A good, strong, heavy gate, with a
a dislocated hinge, so that it will neither open nor
shut. Such an one have I. The grounds before
my fence are in common, and all the neighbors'
cows pasture there. I remarked to Mrs. S., as we
stood at the window in a June sunset, how placid
and picturesque the cattle looked, as they strolled
about, cropping the green herbage. Next morning,
I found the innocent creatures in my garden.
They had not left a green thing in it. The corn in
the milk, the beans on the poles, the young cabbages,
the tender lettuce, even the thriving shoots
on my young fruit-trees had vanished. And there
they were, looking quietly on the ruin they had
made. Our watch-dog, too, was foregathering with
them. It was too much, so I got a large stick and
drove them all out, except a young heifer, whom I
chased all over the flower-beds, breaking down my
trellises, my woodbines and sweet-briers, my roses
and petunias, until I cornered her in the hot-bed.
I had to call for assistance to extricate her from
the sashes, and her owner has sued me for damages.
I believe I shall move in town.

p529-028 CHAPTER II.

We conclude to give the Country another Year's Trial—Spring Birds—Mr.
Sparrowgrass becomes the Owner of a Boat—A Visit from a Friend—First
Experience with a Fish-net—An Irishman in a Fyke—Exchange of Civilities
and Cucumbers—Bate's Cow, and a Hint to Horticulturists—Local Designations.

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Mrs. Sparrowgrass and I have concluded to try
it once more: we are going to give the country
another chance. After all, birds in the spring are
lovely. First, come little snow birds, avant-cour
riers of the feathered army; then, blue-birds, in
national uniforms, just graduated; perhaps, from
the ornithological corps of cadets, with high honors
in the topographical class; then follows a detachment
of flying artillery—swallows; sand-martens,
sappers, and miners, begin their mines and countermines
under the sandy parapets; then cedar
birds, in trim jackets faced with yellow—aha,
dragoons! And then the great rank and file of
infantry, robins, wrens, sparrows, chipping-birds;
and lastly—the band!

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“From nature's old cathedral sweetly ring
The wild bird choirs—burst of the woodland band,
—who mid the blossoms sing;
Their leafy temple, gloomy, tall, and grand,
Pillared with oaks, and roofed with Heaven's own hand.”
There, there, that is Mario. Hear that magnificent
chest note from the chesnuts! then a crescendo,
falling in silence—à-plomb!

Hush! he begins again with a low, liquid
monotone, mounting by degrees and swelling
into an infinitude of melody—the whole grove
dilating, as it were, with the exquisite epithalamium.

Silence now—and how still!

Hush! the musical monologue begins anew; up,
up, into the tree-tops it mounts, fairly lifting
the leaves with its passionate effluence, it trills
through the upper branches—and then dripping
down the listening foliage, in a cadenza of matchless
beauty, subsides into silence again.

“That's a he cat-bird,” says my carpenter.

A cat-bird? Then Shakespeare and Shelly have
wasted powder upon the sky-lark; for never such
“profuse strains of unpremeditated art” issued
from living bird before. Sky-lark! pooh! who

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would rise at dawn to hear the sky-lark, if a cat-bird
were about, after breakfast?

I have bought me a boat. A boat is a good thing
to have in the country, especially if there be any
water near. There is a fine beach in front of my
house. When visitors come, I usually propose to
give them a row. I go down—and find the boat
full of water; then I send to the house for a dipper;
and prepare to bail; and, what with bailing
and swabbing her with a mop, and plugging up
the cracks in her sides, and struggling to get the
rudder in its place, and unlocking the rusty padlock,
my strength is so much exhausted that it is
almost impossible for me to handle the oars. Meanwhile,
the poor guests sit on stones around the beach,
with woe-begone faces. “My dear,” said Mrs.
Sparrowgrass, “why don't you sell that boat?”

“Sell it? ha! ha!”

One day, a Quaker lady from Philadelphia paid
us a visit. She was uncommonly dignified, and
walked down to the water in the most stately
manner, as is customary with Friends. It was
just twilight, deepening into darkness, when I set
about preparing the boat. Meanwhile our Friend
seated herself upon something on the beach. While

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I was engaged in bailing, the wind shifted, and I
became sensible of an unpleasant odor; afraid that
our Friend would perceive it too, I whispered Mrs.
Sparrowgrass to coax her off, and get her further
up the beach.

“Thank thee, no, Susan, I feel a smell hereabout,
and I am better where I am.”

Mrs. S. came back, and whispered mysteriously,
that our Friend was sitting on a dead dog, at which
I redoubled the bailing, and got her out in deep
water as soon as possible.

Dogs have a remarkable scent. A dead setter
one morning found his way to our beach, and I
towed him out in the middle of the river; but the
faithful creature came back in less than an hour—
that dog's smell was remarkable, indeed.

I have bought me a fyke! A fyke is a good
thing to have in the country. A fyke is a fish-net,
with long wings on each side; in shape like a
night-cap with ear-lappets; in mechanism like a
rat-trap. You put a stake at the tip end of the
night-cap, a stake at each end of the outspread
lappets; there are large hoops to keep the night-cap
distended, sinkers to keep the lower sides of
the lappets under water, and floats, as large as

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musk-melons, to keep the upper sides above the
water. The stupid fish come down stream, and
rubbing their noses against the wings, follow the
curve towards the fyke, and swim into the trap.
When they get in they cannot get out. That is
the philosophy of a fyke. I bought one of Conroy.
“Now,” said I to Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “we shall
have fresh fish, to-morrow, for breakfast;” and
went out to set it. I drove the stakes in the mud,
spread the fyke in the boat, tied the end of one
wing to the stake, and cast the whole into the
water. The tide carried it out in a straight line.
I got the loose end fastened to the boat, and found
it impossible to row back against the tide with the
fyke. I then untied it, and it went down stream,
stake and all. I got it into the boat, rowed up, and
set the stake again. Then I tied one end, to the
stake, and got out of the boat myself, in shoal water.
Then the boat got away in deep water; then I had
to swim for the boat. Then I rowed back and untied
the fyke. Then the fyke got away. Then I
jumped out of the boat to save the fyke, and the
boat got away. Then I had to swim again after
the boat, and row after the fyke, and finally was
glad to get my net on dry land, where I left it for

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a week in the sun. Then I hired a man to set it,
and he did; but he said it was “rotted.” Nevertheless,
in it I caught two small flounders and an
eel. At last, a brace of Irishmen came down to
my beach for a swim, at high tide. One of them,
a stout, athletic fellow, after performing sundry
aquatic gymnastics, dived under and disappeared
for a fearful length of time. The truth is, he had
dived into my net. After much turmoil in the
water, he rose to the surface with the filaments
hanging over his head, and cried out, as if he had
found a bird's nest: “I say, Jimmy! be gorra
here's a foike?” That unfeeling exclamation to
Jimmy, who was not the owner of the net, made
me almost wish that it had not been “rotted.”

We are worried about our cucumbers. Mrs. S.
is fond of cucumbers, so I planted enough for ten
families. The more they are picked, the faster they
grow; and if you do not pick them, they turn
yellow, and look ugly. Our neighbor has plenty,
too. He sent us some one morning, by way of a
present. What to do with them we did not know,
with so many of our own. To give them away was
not polite; to throw them away was sinful; to eat
them was impossible. Mrs. S. said, “Save them

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them for seed.” So we did. Next day, our neighbor
sent us a dozen more. We thanked the messenger
grimly, and took them in. Next morning,
another dozen came. It was getting to be a serious
matter; so I rose betimes the following morning, and
when my neighbor's cucumbers came, I filled his
man's basket with some of my own, by way of
exchange. This bit of pleasantry was resented by
my neighbor, who told his man to throw them to
the hogs. His man told our girl, and our girl told
Mrs. S., and, in consequence, all intimacy between
the two families has ceased; the ladies do not
speak even, at church.

We have another neighbor, whose name is
Bates; he keeps cows. This year our gate has
been fixed; but my young peach-trees, near the
fences, are accessible from the road; and Bates's
cows walk along that road, morning and evening.
The sound of a cow bell is pleasant in the twilight.
Sometimes, after dark, we hear the mysterious curfew
tolling along the road, and then, with a louder
peal, it stops before our fence, and again tolls itself
off in the distance. The result is, my peach-tress
are as bare as bean-poles. One day, I saw Mr.
Bates walking along, and I hailed him: “Bates,

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those are your cows there, I believe.” “Yes, sir—
nice ones, ain't they?” “Yes,” I replied, “they
are nice ones. Do you see that tree there?”—and
I pointed to a thrifty peach; with about as many
leaves as an exploded sky-rocket. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, Bates, that red-and-white cow of yours,
yonder, ate the top off that tree: I saw her do it.”
Then I thought I had made Bates ashamed of
himself, and had wounded his feelings, perhaps too
much. I was afraid he would offer me money for
the tree, which I made up my mind to decline, at
once. “Sparrowgrass,” said he, “it don't hurt a
tree a single mossel to chaw it, ef it's a young
tree. For my part, I'd rather have my young
trees chawed than not. I think it makes 'em grow
a leetle better. I can't do it with mine, but you
can, because you can wait to have good trees, and
the only way to have good trees is to have 'em
chawed.”

I think Mrs. Sparrowgrass is much improved by
living in the country. The air has done her good.
The roses again bloom in her cheeks, as well as
freckles, big as butter-cups. When I come home
in the evening from town, and see her with a dress
of white dimity, set off by a dark silk apron, with

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tasteful pockets, and a little fly-away cap, on the
back of her head, she does look bewitching. “My
dear,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, one evening, at tea,
“what am I?”

The question took me at an unguarded moment,
and I almost answered, “A beauty;” but we had
company, so I said, with a blush, “A female, I
believe.”

“Nonsense,” she replied, with a toss of the
“know-nothing” cap; “nonsense; I mean this:—
when I was in Philadelphia, I was a Philadelphian;
when in New York, a New-Yorker; now
we live in Yonkers, and what am I?”

“That,” said I, “is a question more easily asked
than answered. Now, `Yonker,' in its primary
significance, means the eldest son, the heir of the
estate, and `Yonker's' is used in the possessive
sense, meaning `the Yonker's,' or the heir's estate.
If, for instance, you were the owner of the town,
you might, with propriety, be called the Yonkeress.”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she would as soon be
called a tigress!

“Take,” said I, “the names of the places on the
Hudson, and your sex makes no difference in

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regard to the designation you would derive from a
locality. If, for instance, you lived at Spuyten
Devil, you would be called a Spuyten-Deviller!”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said nothing would tempt her
to live at Spuyten Devil.

“Then,” I continued, “there is Tillietudlem—
you'd be a Tillietudlemer.”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said, that, in her present
frame of mind, she didn't think she would submit
to it.

“At Sing Sing, you would be a Sing-Singer; at
Sleepy Hollow, a Sleepy Hollower.”—

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said this was worse than any
of the others.

“At Nyack, a Nyackian; at Dobb's Ferry, a
Dobb's Ferryer.”—

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said that any person who
would call her a “Dobb's Ferryer,” was destitute
of a proper sense of respect.

“You might be a Weehawkite, a Carmansvillan,
a Tubby Hooker.”—

Mrs. Sparrowgrass, quite warm and indignant,
denied it.

“A Tarrytownian—a Riverdalean.”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she thought a village on

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the tip-top of a hill could not be called River-dale
with any show of reason.

“A Simpson's Pointer—a Fordhammer.”

“A what?”

“A Fordhammer.”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she thought, at first, I
was getting profane. “But,” she added, “you do
not answer my question. I live at Yonkers, and
what am I?”

“That,” said I, “Mrs. Sparrowgrass, is a question
I cannot answer, but I will make it a public
matter through these pages.”

“What is the proper, local, or geographical
appellation by which an inhabitant of Yonkers
should be known?”

CHAPTER III.

The Clouds in the Country—A Thunder-Shower—Mr. Sparrowgrass buys a
Bugle—Ineffectual Music—A Serenade and an Interruption—First Fruits—A
Surprise, and the Entire Loss of our Cherry Crop.

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Mrs. Sparrowgrass says that summer sketches
should not come out in the winter. She thinks
what was written in June is not fit to be read in
December, and a paper made in July is out of
season in January. “The one you are putting in
your overcoat pocket, now,” she says, “was written
last August, and I know it.” At first, I was as
much confused as if I had been caught in some
flagrant act of impropriety, but I rallied a little,
for a lucky thought struck me. “Mrs. Sparrowgrass,”
said I, “I will put the August paper in
print, now; but, at the same time, request them
not to read it until warm weather.” This admirable
and original piece of finesse pleased my wife
highly. “That will do,” she said, “but do not
forget to tell them not to read it until then.” So

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now, good reader, when you have reached this
point, fold up the leaf, and do not open it until
Sirius is in the noon-day sky.

We begin to enjoy the clouds since we have
moved out of town. The city sky is all strips and
patches; but the sky of the country forms a very
comfortable whole. Then, you have the horizon,
of which you get but an imperfect idea if you live
in a crooked street; and besides, you can see
distant rain storms passing over far-off landscapes,
and as the light-winged breeze comes sweeping up
and you feel the approaching dampness, there is a
freshness and fragrance in it which is not at all like
the miasmatic exhalations of a great city. Then,
when the rain does come it is not simply an inconvenience,
as it always is in town, but a real
blessing, which even the stupid old cabbages know
enough to enjoy. I think our musk-melons feel
better now, as they lie there in sandy beds sucking
the delicious fluid through their long vinous tubes.
I think our Shaker corn, as he gives himself a
rousing shake, and flings the big drops around him,
does so with a species of boisterous joy, as if he
could not have too much of it; and Monsieur
Tomate, who is capering like Humpty Dumpty on

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the wall, is evidently in high feather, which is not
the case with our forlorn rooster, who is but poorly
protected under the old basket, yonder. The rain
came from the southwest. We saw the clouds
rolling up over the Palisades in round masses, with
a movement like puffs of smoke rolling up from the
guns of a frigate. It was a dead calm; not a
pensile leaf twinkled; the flat expanse of the
river was without a ripple. We saw the conglomerated
volumes of snow-white vapor ascending
to the zenith, and below lay the Hudson, roughening
in the now audibly approaching breeze. Meanwhile
the sky grew ashy pale in the southwest, and
the big clouds overhead were sometimes veined
with lightning, which was reflected momently by
the darkening water. Just below us we heard
the quick rattle of the rings, as the wood sloops
dropped and reefed their broad sails in anticipation
of the squall. Everything around us reposed in a
sort of supernatural twilight, the grass turned grey
and old, the tree trunks changed to iron, the air
seemed denser, sullener, sultrier. Then a little
breeze prattled through the chestnuts, and whitened
the poplars. Then it subsided. Then the white
cloud above appeared a tangle of dazzling light,

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and a sharp fusilade followed on the instant. Then
Mrs. Sparrowgrass got frightened, and said she
must go in, and as she said so, the wind pounced
upon her and carried up her sunbonnet at least
three hundred feet above tide water. Then it
slammed to every door in the house, prostrated my
Lima beans, howled down the chimney, roared and
whistled through the trees, tore the dust from the
roads, and poured it through our open windows,
hurried off the big gate, laid it on my pie-plants,
blew down my beehive, liberated all my bees, who
instantly settled upon our watch dog and stung
him so that he ran away and did not return until
the following Sunday.

Nevertheless, the scenery around was marvellously
beautiful. South of us a grey rain-curtain
was drawn across the river, shutting out everything
beyond, except the spectral masts and spars
of a schooner riding at anchor. The Palisades
started up in the gloom, as their precipitous masses
were revealed by the flashes of unearthly light that
played through the rolling clouds. The river before
us, flecked with snow, stretched away to the north,
where it lay partly in sunshine, under a blue sky,
dappled with fleecy vapors. Inland, the trees were

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twisted in attitudes strikingly picturesque and
novel; the scud flew before the blast like spray,
and below it the swells and slopes of livid green
had an aspect so unusual that it seemed as if I had
been transported into a strange place—a far
countrie. Our cottage, too, which I had planned
and built, changed its tinted walls to stark, staring
white, with window-panes black as ink. From
room to room Mrs. Sparrowgrass flitted like a
phantom, closing the sashes, and making all secure.
Then the electric prattled overhead for a moment,
and wound up with a roar like the explosion of a
stone quarry. Then a big drop fell and rolled
itself up in a globule of dust in the path; then
another—another—another. Then I bethought me
of my new straw hat, and retreated into the house,
and then—it rained!

Reader, did you ever see rain in the country?
I hope you have; my pen is impotent; I cannot
describe it. The storm hushed by degrees, and
went off amid saffron flushes, and a glitter of hail.
The western sky parted its ashy curtains, and the
rugged Palisades lay warm and beautiful under
the evening sun. Now the sun sinks amid melted
topaz and rubies; and above it, on one side,

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stretching aloft from the rocky precipices high up
in the azure, is a crescent of crimson and golden
fragments of clouds! Once more in the sunlight,
and so we will throw open all the windows and let
in the cool air.

I have bought me a bugle. A bugle is a good
thing to have in the country. The man of whom I
bought it said it had an easy draught, so that a
child could fill it. He asked me if I would try it.
I told him I would prefer not, as my wind was not
in order; but that when I got out in my boat, the
instrument should be critically tested. When I
reached home, I could scarcely finish my tea on
account of my bugle. The bugle was a secret. I
meant to surprise Mrs. Sparrowgrass. Play, I
could not, but I would row off in the river, and
blow a prolonged note softly; increasing it until it
thrilled across the night like the dolorous trumpet
of Roland, at the rout of Roncevalles. I slipped

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away, took the hidden instrument from the bushes,
handled the sculls, and soon put five hundred feet
of brine between me and the cottage. Then I unwrapped
the brown paper, and lifted the copper
clarion to my lips. I blew until I thought my
head would burst, and could not raise a toot. I
drew a long breath, expanded my lungs to the
utmost, and blew my eyes almost out of their
sockets, but nothing came of it, saving a harsh,
brassy note, within the metallic labyrinth. Then I
attempted the persuasive, and finally cajoled a faint
rhythmic sound from it that would have been inaudible
at pistol-shot distance. But this was encouraging—
I had gotten the hang of it. Little by little I
succeeded, and at last articulated a melancholy B
flat, whereupon I looked over at the cottage. It
was not there—the boat had drifted down stream,
two miles at least; so I had to tug up against the
tide until I nearly reached home, when I took the
precaution of dropping an anchor to windward,
and once more exalted my horn. Obstinacy is a
Sparrowgrassic virtue. My upper-lip, under the
tuition of the mouth-piece, had puffed out into the
worst kind of a blister, yet still I persevered. I
mastered three notes of the gamut, and then pulled

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

for the front of the cottage. Now, said I, Mrs.
Sparrowgrass, look out for an unexpected serenade.

“Gnar-ty, Gnar-rra-raa-poo-poo-poop-en-arr-ty!
Poo-poo-ta! Poo-poo-ta! Poo-poo-ta-rra-noop-en
taa-ty! Poopen te noopan ta ta! 'np! 'np! Graatoo-pen-tar-poopen-en-arrty!”

“Who is making that infernal noise?” said a
voice on the shore.

“Rrra-ty! 'traa-tar-poopen-tarty!”

“Get out with you!” and a big stone fell splash
in the water. This was too much to bear on my
own premises, so I rowed up to the beach to punish
the offender, whom I found to be my neighbor.

“Oh, ho,” said he, “was that you, Sparrowgrass?”

I said it was me, and added, “You don't seem to
be fond of music?”

He said, not as a general thing, but he thought
a tune on the fiddle, now and then, wasn't bad to
take.

I answered, that the relative merit of stringed and
wind instruments had never been exactly settled,
but if he preferred the former, he might stay at
home and enjoy it, which would be better than
intruding on my beach, and interrupting me when

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

I was practising. With this I locked up my boat,
tucked the bugle under my arm, and marched off.
Our neighbor merely laughed, and said nothing.

When I reached my domicile, Mrs. Sparrowgrass
asked me who that was, “blowing a fish-horn?”
I have in consequence given up music as a source
of enjoyment since that evening.

Our fruit did not turn out well this season on
account of the drought. Our apple trees blossomed
fairly, but the apples were stung by the curculio,
and finished their growth by the time they got to
look like dried prunes. I had the satisfaction, however,
of producing a curious hybrid in my melon
patch, by planting squashes in the next bed. I do
not know which to admire most—the influence of
the melon on the squash, or the influence of the
squash on the melon. Planted side by side, you
can scarcely tell one from the other, except from

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

appearance; but if you ever do eat a musk melon
boiled, or a squash raw, you will have some idea
of this singular and beautiful phenomenon.

On the Fourth of July we had company from
town. “Dear,” said Mrs. S., “have you seen our
cherry?” I answered, that I had set out many
trees of that kind, and did not know which one she
alluded to (at the same time a hopeful vision of
“cherry pie on the Fourth of July” flitted across
my pericranics). As we all walked out to see the
glorious spectacle, I told our guests aside, the young
trees were so luxuriant in foliage that I had not
observed what masses of fruit might be concealed
underneath the leaves, but that Mrs. S. had a penetrating
eye, and no doubt would surprise me as well
as them. When we came to the tree, my wife
turned around, after a slight examination, and
coolly observed, she thought it was there, but some
boy must have picked it off.

“Picked it off,” said I, as the truth flashed in my
mind. “Yes,” she replied, with a mournful accent,
“picked off the only cherry we ever had.”

This was a surprise, indeed, but not what I had
expected. Mrs. Sparrowgrass, how could you
expose me in such a way? How could you, after

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

all my bragging to these city people about our fine
garden, make a revelation that carried away the
foundations of my pride in one fell swoop? How
could you, Mrs. Sparrowgrass?

p529-050 CHAPTER IV.

Mrs. Sparrowgrass discourses of Social Life in the Rural District—Town and
Country—A Rural Party—The Advantages of dressing in a Plain Way—Our
New Dog—Autumnal Scenery—A Family Acqueduct.

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

“WE have an invitation to a party,” said Mrs.
Sparrowgrass, “on Friday next, and I think a party
is a very pleasant thing in the country. There is
more sociability, more hospitality, warmer welcomes,
less dress, and less style than there is in the
city.” Here Mrs. Sparrowgrass handed me an engraved
card of rather formidable dimensions, which
I must confess looked anything but rural. I took
the missive with some misgivings, for I have a
natural horror of parties. “I wonder,” said I, in
the most playful kind of bitter irony, “whether we
will meet out here that young lady that never sings
herself, but is always so passionately fond of music?”
Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she thought not; she
said she heard she was married.

“And that gentleman,” I continued, “who was

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

a stranger to me, that always wanted to be presented
to some young lady that I didn't know?”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she believed he had gone
to California.

“And that lady who prized confectionery above
good-breeding, and went home with her pockets
well stuffed with mottoes, in defiance of the eighth
commandment, and the laws of propriety?”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she knew the lady to
whom I alluded, but she assured me she was yet in
New York, and had not been seen about our
village.

“Then,” said I, “Mrs. Sparrowgrass, we will go
to the party. Put my best shirt, and the white
waisteoat in Monday's wash. Never mind expense.
Get me a crumb of bread, and bring me my old
white gloves. I am going to be gay.”

“I think,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “that a party
in town is nothing but an embarrassment.” “True,”
said I. “Don't you remember,” said she, “what
a fuss I used to make about getting my hair flxed,
and how put out I was that night when you forgot
the japonica?” “Certainly.” “And then, when
we were all dressed and ready, how we used to
wait for fear of getting there too early, and after we

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

did reach the house, how we always got in a corner,
and made happy wall-flowers of ourselves, and some
old friends.” “Of course I do.” “Where nobody
took any notice of us.” “Exactly.” “Then what
difference did it make how I was dressed—whether
I wore Honiton lace or cotton edging?” “I am
afraid,” said I, “Mrs. Sparrowgrass, if you had
made a point of wearing cotton lace, you would
not have been invited.” At this palpable double
entendre I felt that secret satisfaction which every
man must feel when he has said a good thing. It
was lost upon Mrs. Sparrowgrass. “Here,” she
continued, “we expect a simple, old-fashioned
entertainment.” Then I chimed in—“No gas-lights
to make your eyes ache—no patent-leather
to make your feet ache—no fashionable follies to
make your heart ache—and no overheated, ill-ventilated
rooms, boned-turkies, game, ice-cream, Charlotte
Russe, pâtés, champagne, and chicken-salad,
to make your head ache next morning.” “There
will be oysters and ice-cream,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
dubiously. “I wish,” said I, “there was
a prospect of apples and cider instead. The moment
I get inside the doors, and breathe the mingled
odors of oysters and geraniums, it will carry

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

me back to town, and for one evening, at least, I
shall forget that we are living in the country.


—`I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods;'
but we must succumb; we will go like plain, sensible
people, won't we?”

“If you were me, what would you wear?” said
Mrs. Sparrowgrass.

“Something very plain, my dear.”

“Then,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “I have nothing
very plain, suitable for a party, and to-morrow I
must go to town and do a little shopping.”

“I am afraid,” said I (after the second day's
hard shopping in town) “your dress is going to be
too plain, my dear. Every hour brings a fresh boy,
with a fresh bundle, and a fresh bill, to my office.”
Mrs. Sparrowgrass said, “that if I thought so, perhaps
she had better get something expensive when
she went to buy the trimmings.” I told her I
thought her dress would do without trimming. She
said, “it would be ridiculous without gimp or galloon;
but perhaps I would prefer velvet ribbon,

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

on account of the flounces?” I told her she had
better get the velvet ribbon, and omit the gimp and
galloon. Mrs. Sparrowgrass said, “very well,”
and the next day another boy brought another bundle,
and another bill, which convinced me that
extras form an important item in rural architecture.
Then we had a dressmaker for several days, and
the stitching went on by sun-light and lamp-light,
and on the last day Mrs. S. discovered that she had
nothing for her head, and the new bonnet was taken
to pieces to get at the feathers for a coiffure. Then
when the night fell, there fell, too, a soaking rain;
and I had forgotten the carriage, so I was obliged
to go a mile in the mud to order one from the village
livery stable. Then I had to walk back, as
the man said “it was out;” but he promised to
send it for us right straight off. Then I had to get
dressed over again. Then Mrs. Sparrowgrass could
not find her best handkerchief, and I dropped five
spermacetti blotches on the new silk dress looking
for it. Then she found the handkerchief. Then
our girl said that the new dog had run off with one
of my boots. Then I had to go out in the mud in
my slippers after the dog. Then I got the boot and
put it on so as to make that sure. Then we waited

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

for the carriage. We were all dressed and ready,
but no carriage. We exercised all the patience we
could muster, on account of the carriage, and listened
at the windows to see if we could hear it.
Two months have elapsed, and it hasn't come yet.
Next day we heard that the party had been an elegant
affair. That everybody was there, so we concluded
the carriage had not been able to come for
us on account of business.

I have bought me another dog. I bought him
on account of his fine, long ears, and beautiful
silky tail. He is a pup, and much caressed by the
young ones. One day he went off to the butcher's,
and came back with no more tail than a toad. The
whole bunch of young Sparrowgrasses began to
bawl when he reached the cottage, on account of
his tail. I did not know him when I came home,
and he could not recognize me—he had lost his
organ of recognition. He reminded me of a dog I
once heard of, that looked as if he had been where
they wanted a tail merely, and had taken his, and
thrown the dog away. Of course I took my stick,
and went to see the butcher. Butcher said “he
supposed I was something of a dog fancier, and
would like to see my dog look stylish.” I said on

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

the contrary, that I had bought him on account of
his handsome silky tail, and that I would give ten
dollars to have it replaced. Then the idea of having
it replaced seemed so ludicrous that I could not
restrain a smile, and then the butcher caught the
joke, and said there was no way to do it except
with fresh putty. I do love a man who can enjoy
a joke, so I took a fancy to that butcher. When I
got home and saw the dog, I thought less of the
butcher, but put a piece of black court-plaster on
the dog, and it improved his appearance at once.
So I forgave the butcher, and went to bed at peace
with all mankind.

I love to lie a-bed in these autumnal mornings,
and see the early sunlight on those grim old Palisades.
A vast stretch of rock, gaunt and grey, is
not a cheerful view from the south window. Shut
your eyes for a minute, and now look. That faint
red cornice, reaching rough-cast along the rugged
tops, ten miles or more, from Closter to Tillietudlum,
is not unpicturesque. And although we have
not the odor of spring lilacs and summer roses,
breathing through the windows, yet there is something
not less delightful to the senses in this clear
frosty atmosphere. Below, the many-colored woods

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

that burgeon on the sides seem to retain the verdure
of early spring in those cool depths of shadow.
As the sunlight broadens on the crags, the illusion
disappears, and we behold once more the brilliant
vagaries of vegetation, the hectic hints of yesterday.
I wish Kensett could see that pure blue sky
and yonder melancholy sloop on the river, working
her passage down, with bricks from Haverstraw,
and a sail like an expanded rose leaf. It is a pleasant
thing to watch the river craft in these autumnal
mornings. Sometimes we see a white breasted
covey coming up in the distance—from shore to
shore a spread of dimity. Here and there are
troops of shining ones with warm illuminated wings,
and others creeping along in shadow with spectral
pinions, like evil spirits. Yonder schooner is not
an unfair image of humanity; beating up against
adverse winds with one black and one white sail.
That dogged old craft, just emerging from obscurity
into sunlight, is but a type of some curmudgeon
passing from poverty to affluence, and there is another,
evidently on the wrong track, stretching
away from the light of prosperity into the gloom
of misfortune. I do not love the country less
because of her teachings by these simple symbols.

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

There are many things to be learned from watching
the old wood-sloops on the river.

Our neighbor has been making an improvement
in his house. He has had a drain made in the
kitchen, with a long earthen pipe ending in a cess-pool
at the end of his garden. The object of it is
to carry off the superfluous water from the house.
It was a great convenience, he said, “on wash
days.” One objection might be urged, and that
was, after every heavy rain he found a gully in his
garden path, and several cart loads of gravel in his
cess-pool. Besides, the pipe was of an equal width,
and one obstruction led to another; sometimes it
was a silver spoon and a child's frock; sometimes
it was a scrubbing-brush, a piece of soap, and a
handkerchief. I said that if he had made a square
wooden trough, gradually widening from end to
end, it would have cleared itself, and then I thought
it would be a good thing for me to have such a one
myself. Then I had a cess-pool built at the bottom
of the wall, under the bank, which is about
one hundred and fifty feet from the kitchen, and
told my carpenter to make a trough of that length.
Carpenter asked me “how big I wanted it?” I
told him about eight inches in diameter at the end

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

nearest to the house, and then gradually widening
all the way for the whole length. As I said this,
my carpenter smiled, and said he never heard of
such a thing. I told him no, that the idea was an
original one of my own. He asked me how much
I would like to have it widened. I thought for a
moment, and said, “about half an inch to the foot.”
He said very well, and the next week he came with
two horses, and an edifice in his cart that looked
like a truncated shot-tower. I asked him what that
was? He said it was the big end of my pipe.
When he laid it on the ground on its side I walked
through it, and could not touch the upper side
with my hand. Then I asked the carpenter what
he meant by it, and he said it was made according
to directions. I said not at all, that I told him to
increase the diameter at the rate of half an inch to
the foot, and he had made it about a foot to the
foot, as near as I could judge. “Sparrowgrass,”
said he, a little nettled, “jest take your pencil and
put down eight inches.” “Well, that's the diameter
of the small end, I believe?” I told the carpenter
he was right so far. “Now, for every foot
there is an increase of half an inch in the width,
that's according to directions, too, ain't it?” Yes.

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

“Well, then, put down one hundred and fifty half
inches, how much does that make, altogether, in
feet?” Six feet eleven inches. “Now,” said he,
“jest you take my rule, and measure the big end
of that 're pipe.” “Carpenter,” said I, “I see it
all; but the next time I build an aqueduct I will
be a little more careful in the figures.” “Sparrowgrass,”
said he, pointing to the pipe, “didn't
you tell me that that was an original idea of your
own?” I answered that I believed I did make a
remark of that kind. “Well,” said he, with a sort
of muffled laugh, “that is the first time that I see
an original idea come out at the big end.”

p529-061 CHAPTER V.

Children in Town and Country—A Mistake about a Lady—The Menagerie—
Amusement for Children—Winter Scenery—Another Amusement for Children—
Sucker Fishing—General Washington.

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

It is a good thing to have children in the country.
Children in the country are regular old-fashioned
boys and girls, not pocket editions of men and
women as they are in town. In the metropolis
there is no representation of our species in the tadpole
state. The word “lad” has become obsolete.
Fast young men and fast young women repudiate
the existence of that respectable, antique institution,
childhood. It is different in the country. My
eldest does not call me “Governor,” but simply
“Father;” and although in his ninth year, still
treats his mother with some show of respect.

Our next boy (turned seven) has prematurely
given up smoking ratan; and our four-year-old
girl is destitute both of affectation and dyspesia.
As for the present baby, his character is not yet

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

fully developed, but having observed no symptoms
of incipient depravity in him up to this time, we
begin to believe the country is a good place for
children. One thing about it is certain, children
in the country get an immense deal of open-air-training
that is utterly impracticable in town. A
boy or girl, brought up “under glass” (to use a
horticultural phrase) is apt to “blow” prematurely;
but, although it is rather rough culture, still I
think the influence of rocks, rivers, leaves, trees,
buds, blossoms, birds, fresh air, and blue sky, better,
for the undeveloped mind of a child, than
that of a French nurse, no matter how experienced
she may be. I think so, and so does Mrs. Sparrowgrass.

There is one thing, however, that is mortifying
about it. When our friends come up from town
with their young ones, our boys and girl look so fat
and gross beside them, that we have to blush at the
visible contrast. Mrs. Peppergrass, our respected
relative, brought up her little girl the other day, a
perfect French rainbow so far as dress went, and
there they sat—the petite, pale Parisienne of four
years, and the broad chested, chubby, red-cheeked
rustic of the same age, with a frock only diversified

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

by the holes scratched in it, and a clean dimity
apron just put on, with a gorget of fruit marks on
the breast that spoke plainly of last summer—there
they sat, side by side, cousins both, and who would
have known it. “My dear,” said I, to Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
after our respected relative had departed,
“did you observe the difference between those children?
one was a perfect little lady, and the other”—
“Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “I did;
and if I had had a child behave in that way, I
would be ashamed to go anywhere. That child did
nothing but fret, and tease her mother for cake,
from the time she came into the house till she went
out of it. Yes, indeed, our Louise was, as you say,
a real little lady beside her.”

Finding I had been misunderstood, I kept silent.
I do not know anything so sure to prevent controversy
as silence—especially in the country.

“Speech is silver, silence is golden.”

There is one institution, which, in a child's-eye
point of view, possesses a majesty and beauty in
the country altogether unappreciable in a large
city. I allude to the Menagerie! For weeks,

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

juvenile curiosity has been stimulated by pictorial
representations at the Dépôt and Post-office. There
is the likeness of the man who goes into the cage
with the wild beasts, holding out two immense
lions at arms' length. There is the giraffe with his
neck reaching above a lofty palm tree, and the boa
constrictor with a yawning tiger in his convoluted
embrace. If you observe the countenances of the
small fry collected in front of a bill of this description
in the rural districts, you will see in each and
all, a remarkable enlargement of the eye, expressive
of wonder.

“Conjecture, expectation, and surmise,”

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

camels; then other wagons all mystery and red
panels; then pie-bald horses and ponies, and then
the rear-guard of the caravan drags its slow length
along. “My dear,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “we
must take the children and go to the menagerie.”
This seemed a reasonable request, and of course we
went. When we approached the big tent we heard
the music of wind instruments, the sound of a gong,
and the roaring of lions. This divided our juvenile
party at once, one half wanted to go in, and the
other half wanted to keep out; Mrs. Sparrowgrass
joined the seceders, and in consequence, we separated
at the entrance of the canvas edifice. When
we got in we heard that the lion-tamer had finished
his performance, and that the elephant had been
around, but there was a great deal of sport going
on in the ring—the monkey was riding on his pony.
At this announcement the young ones were immensely
excited, and tried to get a peep at it, but,
although I held them up at arms' length, they
could see neither monkey nor pony. Then I tried
to work a passage for them to the front, but the
ring being invested with a border of country people
thirteen deep, this was out of the question. So I
concluded to wait until the crowd dispersed, and to

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

keep the young Sparrowgrasses in good humor, I
held them up and let them read the signs on the
tops of the cages. “Royal Bengal Tiger”—
“Black Lion from Nubia”—“Yellow Asiatic
Lion”—“The Gnu”—“White Polar Bear,” &c.,
&c. By and by the clapping of hands announced
the close of the performance in the ring, and the
dense mass of people became detached, so we made
our way through the crowd towards the elephant.
All of a sudden we saw a general rush of the crowd
in our direction, and we heard somebody say that
“something had broke loose!” Not being of an inquisitive
turn of mind, I did not ask what it was, but
at once retired under a wagon load of pelicans, and
put the young Sparrowgrasses though a door which
I made in the side of the tent with my pruning-knife.
The people poured out of the big door and from
under the edges of the tent, but they had not run far
before they stopped, and proceeded to make inquiries.
Some said it was the polar bear, whereupon
several respectable looking men suddenly climbed
over a fence; others said it was a monkey, at which
all the boys set up a shout. The intrepid conduct of
the cash-taker had much to do with restoring confidence.
He stood there, at the entrance of the tent,

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

smoking a cigar with imperturbable firmness. So
we all concluded to go back again and see the rest
of the show. When we got to the door we found
the entrance fee was twenty-five cents. We represented
that we had been in before. “That may be,”
replied the cash-taker, “but we don't sell season
tickets at this establishment.”

Finding the discussion was likely to be violent
upon this point, I retired, with some suspicions of
having been slightly swindled. When I got home,
Mrs. S. asked me “if we had seen the elephant?” I
told her the whole story. “Well,” said she, “that's
just the way I thought it would be. I'm glad I
did not go in.”

It seems to me the country is marvellously beautiful
in winter time. The number of bright days
and moonlight nights is surprising. The sky is not
less blue in January than in June, nor is a winter
landscape without its charms. The lost verdure of
the woods is compensated by the fine frost-work
woven in the delicate tracery of the trees. To see
a noble forest wreathed in icy gems, is one of the
transcendental glories of creation. You look through
long arcades of iridescent light, and the vision has
an awful majesty, compared with which the most

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

brilliant cathedral windows pale their ineffectual
fires. It is the crystal palace of Jehovah! Within
its sounding aisles a thought even of the city seems
irreverent. We begin to love the country more
and more.

Here you begin to apprehend the wonderful order
of creation, the lengthening days after the winter
solstice; all the phenomena of meteoric machinery,
every change in the wind, every change in the temperature;
in the leafless trees you see a surprising
variety of forms. The maple, the oak, the chestnut,
the hickory, the beech, have each an architecture
as distinct as those of the five orders. Then
the spring is tardy in town, but if you have a hot-bed
in the country, you see its young green firstlings
bursting from the rich mould long before the
city has shaken off the thraldom of winter.

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

One day in the month of March, I heard there
was to be some sport on the Nepperhan in the way
of fishing, so I took my young ones to see it. The
Nepperhan is an historical river—the Tiber of
Yonkers. It runs in a straight line for about forty
yards from the Hudson, then proudly turns to the
right, then curves to the left, and in fact exhibits all
the peculiarities of the Mississippi without its turbulence
and monotony. It was a cold day in
spring, the air was chill, the sky grey, the Palisades
still ribbed with snow. As we approached
the stream we saw that a crowd had collected on
the deck of a wrecked coal-barge moored close to
the bank, and on the side of the bank opposite to
the barge, a man was standing, with one foot in
the water, holding up the end of a net stretched
across the tide. The other end of the net was fastened
to the barge, and the bight, as the sailors say,
was in the water. In the middle of the crowd
there stood upright a fair, portly-looking man of
good presence. His face looked like a weather-beated,
sign-board portrait of General Washington
with white whiskers. He was looking up the
stream, which from this point made a rush for the
south for about one hundred feet, then gave it up,

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

and turned off due east, around a clump of bushes.
What particular animosity General Washington
had to this part of the stream I could not imagine,
but he was damning that clump of bushes with a
zeal worthy of a better cause. I never heard such
imprecations. The oaths flew from his lips, up
stream, as the sparks fly from an express locomotive
at midnight. Dr. Slop's remarks concerning the
knots in the string of the green bag of surgical instruments,
beside them, was like tender pity. Such
ill-natured, uncharitable, unamiable, mordacious,
malignant, pitiless, ruthless, fell, cruel, ferocious,
proscriptive, sanguinary, unkind execrations were
never fulminated against a clump of bushes before.
By-and-by a flat-boat, filled with men, turned the
corner and came broadside down stream. The men
were splashing the water on every side of the flat-boat
to drive the fish towards the net! They had
oars, sticks, boards, boughs, and branches. Then
I understood General Washington. He had been
offended because the flat-boat was behind time.

Now it was all right: I saw a placid expression
spreading over his weather-beaten countenance, as
a drop of oil will spread over rough water, and
mollify its turbulent features. The flat-boat, or

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

scow, was long enough to stretch almost from shore
to shore. The shouts and splashes were frightening
the fish, and below us, in the water, we could
occasionally see a spectral sucker darting hither
and thither. I looked again at General Washington.
He had untied the end of the net, and was
holding it in his hand. His face expressed intense
inward satisfaction—deep—not vain-glorious.
Near and nearer swept the broadside of the boat,
down stream was the net, between both were the
accumulating fish. General Washington's hand
trembled—he was getting excited. Here it comes,
close upon us, and then—by the whiskers of the
Great Mogul! one end of the scow grounded on
the opposite bank, the bow rounded to, and cat-fish,
perch, bull-head, and sucker, darted through the
gap, and made tracks for the most secluded parts
of the Nepperhan! But he who held the net
was equal to the emergency—he cursed the boat
out at right angles in an instant—a small minority
of the fish still remained, and these were driven
into the net. General Washington, with an impulse
like that of a Titan rooting up an oak, pulled up
his end of the net—the fish were fairly above the
water—a smile gleamed out of his weather-beaten

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

face like a flash from a cannon—and then—then
it was—just then—the treacherous mesh split! and
like a thread of silver fire, the finny prey disappeared
through the rent, and made a bee-line for
the Hudson.

“Nary fish!” said an innocent bystander. General
Washington turned an eye upon him that was
like a Drummond light, dropped the net, took off
his hat, and then proceeded to give that individual
such an account of his birth, parentage and family
connections, from the earliest settlement of Westchester
county to the present time, that a parental
regard for the ears of the young Sparrowgrassii,
induced me to hurry them off the coal-barge in the
quickest kind of time. But long after the scene
was out of sight, I could hear, rolling along the face
of the rocky Palisades, the reverberations of the
big oaths, the resonant shadows of the huge anathemas,
that had been the running accompaniments
to the sucker fishing on the Nepperhan!

p529-073 CHAPTER VI.

An Event—Wolfert's Roost—The Nepperhan and its Legends—Mr. Sparrowgrass
descends to the Infernal Regions on a Dumb Waiter—Carrier Pigeons
and Roosters—The great Polish Exile—Poetry—Altogether a Chapter of
Birds.

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

We have had an event in our family. The children
are half crazy about it; Mrs. Sparrowgrass
says she cannot lay it down for a moment; when
she does, Miss Lobelia, our niece, takes it up, and
there she will sit over it, in her lap, for hours together.
It is called “Wolfert's Roost,” a new
book, by Washington Irving. When I brought it
home in my carpet-bag, and opened it at our winter
tea-table, and read all about the Nepperhan
(our river) to the boys, their eyes dilated so, that I
seemed to be surrounded with the various mill-ponds
of that celebrated stream. Here we are
within the enchanted ground, and the shadow of
the great “Katrina Van Courtland, with one foot
resting on Spiting Devil Creek, and the other on
the Croton River,” is over us. It is pleasant to

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

know that, in case of invasion, we are in the same
county with the lusty goose-gun of the lion-hearted
Jacob Van Tassel; and, even in this biting winter-weather,
there is a sort of local pride in the reflection
that the north wind cannot approach us, without
making all the weathercocks on the “Roost”
point towards Yonkers.

As for our eldest, the reading to him of “The
Adalantado of the Seven Cities,” and “The Three
Kings of Bermuda” has filled his head with ships,
sails, anchors, salt-water, and ambergris,


“Nothing of him—
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.”
And while perusing “Mountjoy,” I observed our
niece, Miss Lobelia, glancing contemplatively more
than once at her slipper. “Uncle Sparrowgrass,”
said she, “you have been to Wolfert's Roost, I believe?”
I answered, with all the humility I could
muster, that I had, and proceeded to give a full
and minute account of the particulars; how L. G.
C. and I walked from “Dobb his ferry,” upon the
rigid back-bone of the aqueduct, to Dearman's one
memorable summer day; how the Roost looked,

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

and everything about it—the rough-cast walls,
overclung with Abbotsford ivy, and trumpet
creeper—the crow-step gables—the Sunny-side
pond, with its navy of white, topsail ducks—the
Spanish chestnut that stood on the bank—the splendid
tulip-trees in the ravine back of the Roost—
Gentleman Dick in the stable—the well-worn tiles
in the hall, the Stadt-House weathercock on the
peak of the roof. Miss Lobelia interrupted me—
“Is Mr. a—a—I mean, what became of the heroine
of the footsteps?” “Oh, ho!” thought I, “I see
where the shoe pinches,” and then gravely answered,
“Mountjoy is still a bachelor;” at which
our niece glanced furtively again at her little slipper,
and a fleeting dimple faded from her cheek, as
I have seen a farewell ship gleam for a moment in
the sun, then vanish in shadow.

There's magic in the book, it has bewitched
everybody!

What I most admire in it is, the juvenile air
it has; there is a freshness about Wolfert's Roost,
a sort of spring-like freshness, which makes it
more attractive than anything else Irving ever
wrote. It is a younger brother of the Sketch Book,
not so scholarly, perhaps, but sprightlier; fuller of

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

fine impulses—genius—fire—spirit! And then it
has mentioned our village once or twice; and the
beloved Nepperhan river rolls along, no longer a
dumb feeder of mill-ponds, but a legended stream,
that “winds, for many miles, through a lovely valley,
shrouded by groves, and dotted by Dutch farmhouses,
and empties itself into the Hudson, at the
ancient Dorp of Yonkers!”


“The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The fair humanities of old religion,
The power, the beauty, and the majesty,
That had her haunts in dale, and piny mountains,
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
Or chasms and watery depths,”
may now visit the sacred shores of the Saw-Mill
river—the Nepperhan. A touch of Irving's quill,
and lo, it is immortal! As Arno to the Tuscan, or
Guadalquivir to the Andalusian; as the Ganges to
the Hindoo, or the Nile to the Egyptian, henceforth
and for ever the Nepperhan to the Yonk—to
the future citizens of the ancient Dorp of Yonkers.

“Bottom, thou art translated.”

We, too, have our traditions, and some remain

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

untold. One is that of the horse-ghost, who may
be seen every Evacuation night, after twelve, on a
spectral trot towards the City of New York; and
the other is the legend of the Lop-horned Buck,
who sometimes, in a still summer evening, comes
through the glen, to drink from Baldwin's phantom-haunted
pond. When these are recorded, in a future
Wolfert's Roost, then will the passenger, by
loitering steamboat, or flying train, draw a long
breath as he passes our village, and say, “there!
look! behold! the ancient Dorp of Yonkers!”

We have put a dumb waiter in our house. A
dumb waiter is a good thing to have in the country,
on account of its convenience. If you have company,
everything can be sent up from the kitchen
without any trouble, and, if the baby gets to be
unbearable, on account of his teeth, you can dismiss
the complainant by stuffing him in one of the
shelves, and letting him down upon the help. To
provide for contingencies, we had all our floors
deafened. In consequence, you cannot hear anything
that is going on in the story below; and,
when you are in an upper room of the house, there
might be a democratic ratification meeting in the
cellar, and you would not know it. Therefore, if

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

any one should break into the basement, it would
not disturb us; but to please Mrs. Sparrowgrass, I
put stout iron bars in all the lower windows. Besides,
Mrs. Sparrowgrass had bought a rattle when
she was in Philadelphia; such a rattle as watch-men
carry there. This is to alarm our neighbor,
who, upon the signal, is to come to the rescue with
his revolver. He is a rash man, prone to pull trigger
first, and make inquiries afterwards.

One evening, Mrs. S. had retired, and I was busy
writing, when it struck me a glass of ice-water
would be palatable. So I took the candle and a
pitcher, and went down to the pump. Our pump
is in the kitchen. A country pump, in the kitchen,
is more convenient; but a well with buckets is
certainly most picturesque. Unfortunately, our
well water has not been sweet since it was cleaned
out. First I had to open a bolted door that lets
you into the basement-hall, and then I went to the
kitchen-door, which proved to be locked. Then I
remembered that our girl always carried the key
to bed with her, and slept with it under her pillow.
Then I retraced my steps; bolted the basement-door,
and went up in the dining-room. As is
always the case, I found, when I could not get any

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

water, I was thirstier than I supposed I was. Then
I thought I would wake our girl up. Then I concluded
not to do it. Then I thought of the well,
but I gave that up on account of its flavor. Then
I opened the closet doors, there was no water there;
and then I thought of the dumb waiter! The
novelty of the idea made me smile; I took out two
of the movable shelves, stood the pitcher on the
bottom of the dumb waiter, got in myself with the
lamp; let myself down, until I supposed I was
within a foot of the floor below, and then let go!

We came down so suddenly, that I was shot out
of the apparatus as if it had been a catapult; it
broke the pitcher, extinguished the lamp, and
landed me in the middle of the kitchen at midnight,
with no fire, and the air not much above the zero
point. The truth is, I had miscalculated the distance
of the descent—instead of falling one foot, I
had fallen five. My first impulse was, to ascend
by the way I came down, but I found that impracticable.
Then I tried the kitchen door, it was
locked; I tried to force it open; it was made of
two-inch stuff, and held its own. Then I hoisted a
window, and there were the rigid iron bars. If I
ever I felt angry at anybody it was at myself, for

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

putting up those bars to please Mrs. Sparrowgrass.
I put them up, not to keep people in, but to keep
people out.

I laid my cheek against the ice-cold barriers and
looked out at the sky; not a star was visible; it
was as black as ink overhead. Then I thought of
Baron Trenck, and the prisoner of Chillon. Then
I made a noise! I shouted until I was hoarse, and
ruined our preserving-kettle with the poker. That
brought our dogs out in full bark, and between us
we made night hideous. Then I thought I heard a
voice, and listened—it was Mrs. Sparrowgrass calling
to me from the top of the stair-case. I tried to
make her hear me, but the infernal dogs united
with howl, and growl, and bark, so as to drown my
voice, which is naturally plaintive and tender.
Besides, there were two bolted doors and double
deafened floors between us; how could she recognize
my voice, even if she did hear it? Mrs. Sparrowgrass
called once or twice, and then got frightened;
the next thing I heard was a sound as if the
roof had fallen in, by which I understood that Mrs.
Sparrowgrass was springing the rattle! That
called out our neighbor, already wide awake; he
came to the rescue with a bull-terrier, a

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

Newfound-land pup, a lantern, and a revolver. The moment
he saw me at the window, he shot at me, but fortunately
just missed me. I threw myself under the
kitchen table and ventured to expostulate with
him, but he would not listen to reason. In the
excitement I had forgotten his name, and that
made matters worse. It was not until he had
roused up everybody around, broken in the basement
door with an axe, gotten into the kitchen
with his cursed savage dogs and shooting-iron, and
seized me by the collar, that he recognized me—
and then, he wanted me to explain it! But what
kind of an explanation could I make to him? I
told him he would have to wait until my mind was
composed, and then I would let him understand
the whole matter fully. But he never would have
had the particulars from me, for I do not approve
of neighbors that shoot at you, break in your door,
and treat you, in your own house, as if you were a
jail-bird. He knows all about it, however—somebody
has told him—somebody tells everybody everything
in our village.

That somebody reminds me of a queer fowl that
roosts in the village, and in all villages, to hatch
disturbances among weak-minded people. I allude

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

to the Carrier Pigeon. The Carrier Pigeon tells
you all your friends say of you, and tells your
friends all you say of them. The mode of tactics
is somewhat in this wise. She goes to Mrs. Kornkobbe's,
takes tea with that lady, pets the children,
takes out her needle and thread, opens her little
basket, pulls out a bit of linen, with a collar pattern
pencilled upon it, puts on her thimble, then
stiches away, and innocently asks Mrs. K. if she
has heard that ridiculous story about her husband.

Mrs. Kornkobbe has not heard of it, but bridles
up, and would like to know who has had the impudence
to say anything about her husband! The
Carrier Pigeon does not like to mention names,
but vaguely hints that something is in the wind.
Mrs. K., of course, is anxious to know the particulars.
Carrier Pigeon would not for the world hurt
Mrs. K.'s feelings, but, just for her own satisfaction,
she would like to ask “where Mr. Kornkobbe's
father was born?” Mrs. K. is completely
nonplused by this question, for, to use a mercantile
phrase, she had never been posted up in regard to
the incubation of her father-in-law, deceased some
twenty years before she was married and two years
before she was born. Carrier Pigeon, seeing Mrs.

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

K.'s trepidation, adds, carelessly, as it were, “Your
husband is an American, I believe?” Mrs. K.
catches at that, and answers “Yes.” “German
name?” Mrs. K. replies in the affirmative. “That
is all I want to know,” sighs the Carrier Pigeon.
Whereupon Mrs. K., who is wrought up to fever
point, answers, “But that is not all I want to
know;” and, by dint of a deal of persuasion, finally
draws out the important secret; the Carrier Pigeon
has heard it reported all over the village, that Mr.
Kornkobbe's father was nothing but a low German
shoemaker. Now, if there is any information that
Mrs. K. desires next in the world, it is to have the
name of the person who said so; and Carrier
Pigeon, after a temporary struggle between duty
and propriety, finally, but reluctantly, gives up
Mrs. Marshmallow as the author, at which Mrs.
Kornkobble lets loose all the pent-up fury in her
soul upon the whole Marshmallow tribe, from the
old grandfather, who hands around the plate in
church, down to the youngest member of the
family, just recovering from the united attacks of
sprue, measles, hooping cough, and chicken pox.

The next day Mrs. Marshmallow, who really
loves Mrs. K. like a sister, and who possibly might

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

have repeated by way of a mere joke, and not as
a reflection, that Kornkobbe, senior, had been a
Teutonic cordwainer—the next day, Mrs. Marshmallow
is visited by the Carrier Pigeon. Now,
Mrs. M. is a lady of much stronger mind than Mrs.
K.; not so easily excited by any means; but Carrier
Pigeon, by dint of hints, innuendoes, and all
the artillery of shrugs and smiles, finally manages
to excite her curiosity; and then, when pressed to
divulge, after binding up Mrs. Marshmallow not to
tell a living soul, and taking other precautions of
like nature, reluctantly, after struggling again
through duty and propriety, allows Mrs. Marshmallow
to draw from her all and everything Mrs.
Kornkobbe had said about her the previous evening;
but, of course, does not say a word of the use
she had made of Mrs. Marshmallow's name, by
which the fire had been kindled so as to bring Mrs.
K. up to the scalding point. And, as the tone of
the Carrier Pigeon would lead Mrs. M. to believe
that all her friend, Mrs. Kornkobbe, had said, was
gratuitous, she at once makes up her mind that
Mrs. Kornkobbe is a base, cold-blooded, doublefaced,
malicious slanderer. How pleased she is
that she has found her out. Explanation is out of

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

the question; neither Mrs. K. nor Mrs. M. will
condescend to notice each other, and Mr. Marshmallow
and Mr. Kornkobbe go down to town in
separate cars from that time and for ever.

I love to see the Carrier Pigeon; to admire its
pretty glossy neck, its mild eyes, its chaste and elegant
plumage; but Mrs. Sparrowgrass and I have
determined never to listen to its dulcet voice,
whether it bring accounts of how our neighbors
look, or how we look ourselves when others see us.

We have gotten another rooster. Our Bantam
disappeared one day; but we do not think it a
serious loss, as he was of very little use. While
he remained with us he kept up a sort of rakish air,
and swaggered among the young pullets, just as
you sometimes see an old bachelor with a bevy of
buxom damsels; but the dame Partlets did not
have much respect for him, and I am afraid he was
terribly hen-pecked by Leah and Rachel. He left
us one day. Probably he made away with himself—
there is a great deal of vanity in a rooster, and
wounded vanity is often the cause of suicide. One
evening, on my return from the city, Mrs. Sparrowgrass
said she had a surprise for me—a present
from a friend. It was a Rooster; a magnificent

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

black Poland cock, with a tuft of white feathers on
his crown, and the most brilliant plumage in Westchester
county. There he stood, one foot advanced,
head erect, eye like a diamond, tail as high as his
top-knot. There, too, was his mate, a matron-like,
respectable looking female, who would probably
conduct herself according to circumstances, and
preserve her dignity amid the trying difficulties of
her new position. “A present from Judge Waldbin,”
said Mrs. Sparrowgrass. “So I thought,”
said I; “generous friend! Do you know what I
intend to do with his rooster?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
was frightened, and said she did not know. “Put
him in verse,” said I. Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she
never heard of such a thing. But I will, Mrs. S.,
though I cannot write verse except upon great
occasions. So, after a hearty supper and two cigars,
I composed the following:—

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

“I think,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “I have
heard something like that before.”

“No doubt you have,” said I; “part is from
Pope, part from Halleck, especially the pun in the
first stanza; but how can you make decent poetry
in the country without borrowing a little here and
there, unless you have the genius of a Homer, or
of an Alexander Smith, Mrs. Sparrowgrass?”

p529-088 CHAPTER VII. A Country Fire-place—Lares and Penates—Sentiment—Spring Vegetables in
the Germ—A Garden on Paper—Warm Weather—A Festa—An Irruption of
Noseologists—Constitutional Law, and so forth.

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

It is a good thing to have an old-fashioned fireplace
in the country; a broad-breasted, deep-chested
chimney-piece, with its old-fashioned fender, its
old-fashioned andirons, its old-fashioned shovel and
tongs, and a goodly show of cherry-red hickory, in
a glow, with its volume of blue smoke curling up
the thoracic duct. “Ah! Mrs. Sparrowgrass, what
would the country be without a chimney corner
and a hearth? Do you know,” said I, “the little
fairies dance upon the hearth-stone when an heir is
born in a house?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she did
not know it, but, she said, she wanted me to stop
talking about such things. “And the cricket,”
said I, “how cheerful its carol on the approach of
winter.” Mrs. S. said the sound of a cricket made
her feel melancholy. “And the altar and the

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

hearth-stone: symbols of religion and of home!
Before one the bride—beside the other the wife!
No wonder, Mrs. Sparrowgrass, they are sacred
things; that mankind have ever held them inviolable,
and preserved them from sacrilege, in all times,
and in all countries. Do you know,” said I, “how
dear this hearth is to me?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
said, with hickory wood at eight dollars a cord, it
did not surprise her to hear me grumble. “If
wood were twenty dollars a cord I would not complain.
Here we have everything—


.—content,
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,
Ease and alternate labor, useful life;'
and as I sit before our household altar,” said I,
placing my hand upon the mantel, “with you beside
me, Mrs. S., I feel that all the beautiful fables
of poets are only truths in parables when they
relate to the hearth-stone—the heart-stone, I may
say, of home!”

This fine sentiment did not move Mrs. Sparrowgrass
a whit. She said she was sleepy. After all,
I begin to believe sentiment is a poor thing in the
country. It does very well in books, and on the

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

stage, but it will not answer for the rural districts.
The country is too genuine and honest for it. It is
a pretty affectation, only fit for artificial life. Mrs.
Peppergrass may wear it, with her rouge and diamonds,
in a drawing-room, but it will not pass current
here; any more than the simulated flush of
her cheeks can compare with that painted in the
skin of a rustic beauty by the sun and air.

“Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I, “let us have some
nuts and apples, and a pitcher of Binghamton
cider; we have a good cheerful fire to-night, and
why should we not enjoy it?”

When Mrs. Sparrowgrass returned from giving
directions about the fruit and cider, she brought
with her a square, paper box full of garden seeds.
To get good garden seeds is an important thing in
the country. If you depend upon an agricultural
warehouse you may be disappointed. The way to
do is, to select the best specimens from your own
raising: then you are sure they are fresh, at least.
Mrs. Sparrowgrass opened the box: First she took
out a package of seeds, wrapped up in a newspaper—
then she took out another package tied up in
brown paper—then she drew forth a bundle that
was pinned up—then another that was taped up—

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

then another twisted up—then out came a bursted
package of watermelon seeds—then a withered ear
of corn—then another package of watermelon seeds
from another melon—then a handful of split okra
pods—then handsful of beans, peas, squash seeds,
melon seeds, cucumber seeds, sweet corn, evergreen
corn, and other germs. Then another bursted paper
of watermelon seeds. There were watermelon
seeds enough to keep half the county supplied
with this refreshing article of luxury. As the treasures
were spread out on the table, there came over
me a feeling that reminded me of Christmas times,
when the young ones used to pant down stairs, before
dawn, lamp in hand, to see the kindly toy-gifts
of Santa Claus. Then the Mental Gardener, taking
Anticipation by the hand, went forth into the
future garden; peas sprouted out in round leaves,
tomato put forth his aromatic spread; sweet corn
thrust his green blades out of many a hillock; lettuce
threw up his slender spoons; beans shouldered
their way into the world, like æneases, with the
old beans on their backs; and watermelon and
cucumber, in voluptuous play, sported over the
beds like truant school-boys.

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

“Now,” said I, “Mrs. Sparrowgrass, let us
arrange these in proper order; I will make a chart
of the garden on a piece of paper, and put everything
down with a date, to be planted in its proper
time.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she thought that
an excellent plan. “Yes,” I replied, tasting the
cider, “we will make a garden to-night on paper, a
ground plan, as it were, and plant from that; now,
Mrs. S., read off the different packages.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
took up a paper and laid it aside, then
another, and laid it aside. “I think,” said she, as
the third paper was placed upon the table, “I did not
write any names on the seeds, but I believe I can
tell them apart; these,” said she, “are water-melon.”
“Very well, what next?” “The next,”
said Mrs. S., “is either muskmelon or cucumber
seed.” “My dear,” said I, “we want plenty of
melons, for the summer, but I do not wish to plant
half an acre of pickles by mistake; can't you be
sure about the matter?” Mrs. Sparrograss said
she could not. “Well, then, lay the paper down

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

and call off the next.” “The next are not radishes,
I know,” said Mrs. S., “they must be summer cabbages.”
“Are you sure now, Mrs. Sparrowgrass?”
said I, getting a little out of temper. Mrs. Sparrowgrass
said she was sure of it, because cabbage
seed looked exactly like turnip seed. “Did you
save turnip seed also?” said I. Mrs. Sparrowgrass
replied, that she had provided some, but they must
be in another paper. “Then call off the next; we
will plant them for cabbages, whether or no.” “Here
is a name,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, brightening up.
“Reas it,” said I, pen in hand. “Watermelons—
not so good,” said Mrs. S. “Lay that paper with
the rest and proceed.” “Corn,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
with a smile. “Variety?” “Pop, I am
sure.” “Good, now we begin to see daylight.”
“Squash,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass. “Winter or
Summer?” “Both.” “Lay that paper aside, my
dear.” “Tomato.” “Red or yellow?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
said she had pinned up the one and tied
up the other, to distinguish them, but it was so long
ago, she had forgot which was which. “Never
mind,” said I, “there is one comfort, they cannot
bear without showing their colors. Now for the
next.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said, upon tasting the

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

tomato seed, she was sure they were bell peppers.
“Very well, so much is gained, we are sure of the
capsicum. The next.” “Beans,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass.

There is one kind of bean, in regard to which I
have a prejudice. I allude to the asparagus bean,
a sort of long-winded esculent, inclined to be prolific
in strings. It does not climb very high on the
pole, but crops out in an abundance of pods, usually
not shorter than a bill of extras, after a contract;
and although interesting as a curious vegetable,
still not exactly the bean likely to be highly commended
by your city guests, when served up to
them at table. When Mrs. Sparrowgrass, in answer
to my question, as to the particular species of
bean referred to, answered, “Limas,” I felt relief
at once. “Put the Limas to the right with the
sheep, Mrs. S., and as for the rest of the seeds sweep
them into the refuse basket. I will add another
stick to the fire, pare an apple for you, and an
apple for me, light a cigar, and be comfortable.
What is the use of fretting about a few seeds more
or less? But, next year, we will mark all the packages
with names, to prevent mistakes, won't we,
Mrs. Sparrowgrass?”

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

There has been a great change in the atmosphere
within a few days. The maple twigs are all scarlet
and yellow fringes, the sod is verdurous and
moist; in the morning a shower of melody falls
from the trees around us, where blue birds and
“pewees” are keeping an academy of music. Off
on the river there is a long perspective of shadpoles,
apparently stretching from shore to shore,
and, here and there, a boat, with picturesque fishermen,
at work over the gill-nets. Now and then
a shad is held up; in the distance it has a star-like
glitter, against the early morning sun. The fruit
trees are bronzed with buds. Occasionally a feeble
fly creeps along, like a valetudinarian too early in
the season at a watering-place. The marshes are
all a-whistle with dissipated bull-frogs, who keep
up their revelry at unseemly hours. Our great
Polander is in high cluck, and we find eggs in the
hens' nests. It is Spring! It is a good thing to
have spring in the country. People grow young
again in the spring in the country. The world, the
old globe itself, grows young in the spring, and
why not Mr. and Mrs. Sparrowgrass? The city, in
the spring, is like the apples of Sodom, “fair and
pleasant to behold, but dust and ashes within.” But

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

who shall sing or say what spring is in the country?

“Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I, “the weather is
beginning to be very warm and spring-like; how
would you like to have a little festa?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
said that, in her present frame of mind, a
fester was not necessary for her happiness. I replied,
“I meant a festa, not a fester; a little fête,
a few friends, a few flowers, a mild sort of spring
dinner, if you please; some music, claret, fresh
lettuce, lamb and spinach, and a breakfast of eggs
fresh laid in the morning, with rice cakes and
coffee.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she was willing.
“Then,” said I, “Mrs. S., I will invite a few old
friends, and we will have an elegant time.” So,
from that day we watched the sky very cleverly
for a week, to ascertain the probable course of the
clouds, and consulted the thermometer to know
what chance there was of having open windows
for the occasion. The only drawback that stood in
the way of perfect enjoyment was, our lawn had

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

been half rooted out of existence by an irruption
of predatory pigs. It was vexatious enough to see
our lawn bottom-side up on a festive occasion.
But I determined to have redress for it. Upon
consulting with the best legal authority in the village,
I was told that I could obtain damages by
identifying the animals, and commencing suit
against the owner. As I had not seen the animals,
I asked Mrs. Sparrowgrass if she could identify
them. She said she could not. “Then,” said
I to my legal friend, “what can I do?” He replied
that he did not know. “Then,” said I, “if they
come again, and I catch them in the act, can I fire
a gun among them?” He said I could; but that I
would be liable for whatever damage was done them.
“That,” said I, “would not answer; my object is to
make the owner suffer, not the poor quadrupeds.”
He replied that the only sufferers would probably
be the pigs and myself. Then I asked him, if the
owner recovered against me, whether I could bring
a replevin suit against him. He said that, under
the Constitution of the United States, such a suit
could be brought. I asked him if I could recover.
He said I could not. Then I asked him what
remedy I could have. He answered that if I

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

found the pigs on my grounds, I could drive them
to the pound, then call upon the fence-viewers, get
them to assess the damages done, and by this means
mulct the owner for the trespass. This advice
pleased me highly; it was practical and humane.
I determined to act upon it, and slept soundly
upon the resolution. The next day our guests
came up from town. I explained the lawn to them,
and having been fortified on legal points, instructed
them as to the remedy for trespass. The day was
warm and beautiful; our doors and windows were
thrown wide open. By way of offset to the appearance
of the lawn, I had contrived, by purchasing
an expensive little bijou of a vase, and filling it
with sweet breathing flowers, to spread a rural air
of fragrance thoughout the parlor. The doors of
the bay-window open on the piazza; in one door-way
stood a tray of delicate confections, upon two
slender quartette tables. These were put in the
shade to keep cool. I had suborned an Italian to
bring them up by hand, in pristine sharpness and
beauty of outline. I was taking a glass of sherry
with our old friend, Capt. Bacon, of the U.S. Navy,
when suddenly our dogs commenced barking. We
keep our dogs chained up by daylight. Looking

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

over my glass of sherry, I observed a detachment
of the most villainous looking pigs rooting up my
early pea-patch. “Now,” said I, “Captain,” putting
down my glass deliberately, “I will show you
some fun; excuse me for a few minutes;” and with
that I bowed significantly to our festal guests.
They understood at once that etiquette must give
way when pea-patch was about being annihilated.
I then went out, unchained the dogs, and
commenced driving the pigs out of the garden.
After considerable trampling of all my early vegetables,
under the eyes of my guests, I managed to
get the ringleader of the swinish multitude into my
parlor. He was a large, powerful looking fellow,
with a great deal of comb, long legs, mottled complexion,
and ears pretty well dogged. He stood
for a moment at bay against the sofa, then charged
upon the dogs, ran against the centre table, which
he accidentally upset, got headed off by Captain
Bacon, who came to the rescue, darted under our
quartette tables—making a general distribution of
confectionery, and finally got cornered in the
piazza.

By this time I was so much exasperated that I
was capable of taking the life of the intruder, and

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

probably should have done so had my gun not been
at the gunsmith's. In striking at him with a stick,
I accidentally hit one of the dogs such a blow as to
disable him. But I was determined to capture the
destroyer and put him in the pound. After some
difficulty in getting him out of the piazza, I drove
him into the library and finally out in the ground.
The rest of his confederates were there, quietly
feeding on the remains of the garden. Finally I
found myself on the hot, high road, with all my
captives and one dog, in search of the pound. Not
knowing where the pound was, after driving them
for a quarter of a mile, I made inquiry of a respectable
looking man, whom I met, in corduroy
breeches, on the road. He informed me that he
did not know. I then fell in with a colored boy
who told me the only pound was at Dobb's Ferry.
Dobb's Ferry is a thriving village about seven
miles north of the Nepperhan. I made a bargain
with the colored boy for three dollars, and by his
assistance the animals were safely lodged in the
pound. By this means I was enabled to return to
my guests. Next day I found out the owner. I
got the fence-viewers to estimate the damages.

The fence-viewers looked at the broken

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

mahogany and estimated. I spoke of the vase, the
flowers, [green-house flowers] and the confectionery.
These did not appear to strike them as damageable.
I think the fence-viewers are not liberal
enough in their views. The damages done to
a man's temper and constitution shall be included,
if ever I get to be fence-viewer; to say nothing of
exotics trampled under foot, and a beautiful dessert
ruthlessly destroyed by unclean animals. Besides
that, we shall not have a pea until everybody else
in the village has done with peas. We shall be
late in the season with our early peas. At last an
advertisement appeared in the county paper, which
contained the decision of the fence-viewers, to wit:

Westchester County, ss.

Town of Yonkers. ss.

WE, THE SUBSCRIBERS, FENCE-VIEWERS of said town, having been
applied to by Samson Sparrowgrass of said town to appraise
the damages done by nine hogs, five wintered, [four spotted
and one white,] and four spring pigs, [two white] distrained
by him doing damage on his lands, and having been to the place,
and viewed and ascertained the damages, do hereby certify the
amount thereof to be three dollars, and that the fees for our services
are two dollars. Given under our hands, this — day of—,
185-.

DANIEL MALMSEY, Fence-viewers.

PETER ASSMANSHAUSER, Fence-viewers.

The above hogs are in the Pound at Dobb's Ferry.

CORNELIUS CORKWOOD, Pound Master.

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

“Under the circumstances,” said I, “Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
what do you think of the pound as a
legal remedy?” Mrs. S. said it was shameful.
“So I think, too; but why should we repine? The
birds sing, the sky is blue, the grass is green side
up, the trees are full of leaves, the air is balmy,
and the children, God bless them! are happy.
Why should we repine about trifles? If we want
early peas we can buy them, and as for the vase,
flowers, and confectionery, they would have been
all over with, by this time, if the pigs had not been
here. There is no use to cry, like Alexander, for
another world; let us enjoy the one we have, Mrs.
Sparrowgrass.”

p529-103 CHAPTER VIII.

Mr. Sparrowgrass concludes to buy a Horse—Reminiscences of Bloomingdale—
The difference between now and then—A Horse as can go—An Artist Story—
Godiva—Homeward and Outward bound—The Curtained Dais of the Life
School—A new “Lady of Coventry.”

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

I have bought me a horse! A horse is a good
thing to have in the country. In the city, the persevering
streets have pushed the Bloomingdale
road out of reach. Riding-habits and rosy cheeks,
bright eyes, round hats and feathers, are banished
from the metropolis. There are no more shady bypaths
a little way out of town to tempt equestrians.
There are no visions of Die Vernon and Frank
Osbaldiston at “Burnam's” now. Romance no
longer holds the bridle-rein while the delicate slipper
is withdrawn from the old red morocco stirrup.
A whirl of dust, a glitter of wheels, a stretch of
tag-rag and bobtail horses, and the young Potiphars
are contesting time with Dusty Bob and the
exquisite Mr. Farobank. That is the picture of the

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

Bloomingdale road now. It is the everyday picture
too. Go when you will, you see the tag-rag
and bobtail horses, the cloud of dust, the whirl of
wheels, the young Potiphars, Dusty Bob, and the
elegant Mr. Farobank.

There was a time when I could steal away from
the dusky counting-room to inhale the fragrant
hartshorn of the stable, while the hostler was putting
the saddle on “Fanny.” Fanny was a blooded
filly, a descendant of the great Sir Henry. Her
education had been neglected. She had been
broken by a couple of wild Irishmen, who used to
“hurrup” her, barebacked, morning and evening,
through the lonely little street in the lower part of
the city, where the stable was situated. As a consequence,
the contest between her high blood and
low breeding made her slightly vicious. The first
time I backed her, she stood still for half an hour,
no more moved by the whip than a brass filly
would have been; then deliberately walked up the
street, turned the corner with a jump that almost
threw me on the curb-stone, then ran away, got on
the sidewalk, and stopped suddenly, with her fore
feet planted firmly in front of a steep flight of area
steps, which happened to be filled with children.

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

I dismounted, and, in no time, was the centre of an
angry swarm of fathers and mothers, who were
going to immolate me on the spot for trying to ride
down their ragged offspring. There is much difficulty
in making an explanation under such circumstances.
As the most abusive person in the crowd
happened to be a disinterested stranger who was
passing by, it soon became a personal matter between
two of us. Accordingly, I asked him to step
aside, which he did, when I at once hired him to
lead the filly to the ferry. Once on a country road,
I was at home in the saddle, and a few days' training
made Fanny tractable. She would even follow
me with great gentleness, like a trained dog, and
really behaved in a very exemplary way, after
throwing me twice or so. Then Fanny and I were
frequently on the Bloomingdale road, in summer
evenings and mornings, and so were ladies and
gentlemen. I do not think the fine buildings that
usurp those haunted paths an improvement. Those
leafy fringes on the way-side had a charm that freestone
cannot give. That stretch of vision over
meadows, boulders, wild shrubbery and uplifted
trees, down to the blue river, is not compensated
by ornate facades, cornices, and vestibules. Where

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

are the birds? In my eyes, the glimmer of sultry
fire-flies is pleasanter in a summer night than the
perspective gas-lights in streets.

Poor Fanny! my Bloomingdale bride! I believe
I was her only patron; and when the stable burnt
down, she happened to be insured, and her mercenary
owner pocketed her value with a grin.

I have bought me a horse. As I had obtained
some skill in the manége during my younger days,
it was a matter of consideration to have a saddle-horse.
It surprised me to find good saddle-horses
very abundant soon after my consultation with the
stage-proprietor upon this topic. There were
strange saddle-horses to sell almost every day
One man was very candid about his horse: he told
me, if his horse had a blemish, he wouldn't wait to
be asked about it; he would tell it right out; and,
if a man didn't want him then, he needn't take him.

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

He also proposed to put him on trial for sixty days,
giving his note for the amount paid him for the
horse, to be taken up in case the animal were
returned. I asked him what were the principal
defects of the horse. He said he'd been fired once,
because they thought he was spavined; but there
was no more spavin to him than there was to a freshlaid
egg—he was as sound as a dollar. I asked him
if he would just state what were the defects of the
horse. He answered, that he once had the pinkeye,
and added, “now that's honest.” I thought
so, but proceeded to question him closely. I asked
him if he had the bots. He said, not a bot. I
asked him if he would go. He said he would go
till he dropped down dead; just touch him with a
whip, and he'll jump out of his hide. I inquired
how old he was. He answered, just eight years,
exactly—some men, he said, wanted to make their
horses younger than they be; he was willing to
speak right out, and own up he was eight years.
I asked him if there were any other objections.
He said no, except that he was inclined to be a little
gay; “but,” he added, “he is so kind, a child
can drive him with a thread.” I asked him if he
was a good family horse. He replied that no lady

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

that ever drew rein over him would be willing to
part with him. Then I asked him his price. He
answered that no man could have bought him for
one hundred dollars a month ago, but now he was
willing to sell him for seventy-five, on account of
having a note to pay. This seemed such a very
low price, I was about saying I would take him,
when Mrs. Sparrowgrass whispered, that I had better
see the horse first. I confess I was a little afraid
of losing my bargain by it, but, out of deference to
Mrs. S., I did ask to see the horse before I bought
him. He said he would fetch him down. “No
man,” he added, “ought to buy a horse unless he's
saw him.” When the horse came down, it struck
me that, whatever his qualities might be, his personal
appearance was against him. One of his fore
legs was shaped like the handle of our punch-ladle,
and the remaining three legs, about the fetlock,
were slightly bunchy. Besides, he had no tail to
brag of; and his back had a very hollow sweep,
from his high haunches to his low shoulder-blades.
I was much pleased, however, with the fondness
and pride manifested by his owner, as he held up,
by both sides of the bridle, the rather longish head
of his horse, surmounting a neck shaped like a

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

peapod, and said, in a sort of triumphant voice, “three-quarters
blood!” Mrs. Sparrowgrass flushed up a
little, when she asked me if I intended to purchase
that horse, and added, that, if I did, she would
never want to ride. So I told the man he would
not suit me. He answered by suddenly throwing
himself upon his stomach across the back-bone of
his horse, and then, by turning round as on a pivot,
got up a-straddle of him; then he gave his horse a
kick in the ribs that caused him to jump out with
all his legs, like a frog, and then off went the spoonlegged
animal with a gait that was not a trot, nor
yet precisely pacing. He rode around our grass
plot twice, and then pulled his horse's head up like
the cock of a musket. “That,” said he, “is time.”
I replied that he did seem to go pretty fast.
“Pretty fast!” said his owner. “Well, do you
know Mr.—?” mentioning one of the richest
men in our village. I replied that I was acquainted
with him. “Well,” said he, “you know his horse?”
I replied that I had no personal acquaintance with
him. “Well,” said he, “he's the fastest horse in
the county—jist so—I'm willin' to admit it. But
do you know I offered to put my horse agin' his to
trot? I had no money to put up, or, rayther, to

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

spare; but I offered to trot him, horse agin' horse,
and the winner to take both horses, and I tell you—
he wouldn't do it!”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass got a little nervous, and
twitched me by the skirt of the coat. “Dear,”
said she, “let him go.” I assured her I would not
buy the horse, and told the man firmly I would not
buy him. He said very well—if he didn't suit'
twas no use to keep a-talkin': but he added, he'd
be down agin' with another horse, next morning,
that belonged to his brother; and if he didn't suit
me, then I didn't want a horse. With this remark
he rode off.

When I reached our rural dwelling in the evening,
I brought with me the pleasant memory of a
story I had heard amid the crash and roar of the
great city. To preserve it, I wrote it down on
paper. Then I brought it in to Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
and, with a sort of premonitory smile, asked her if
she remembered “Godiva.” Mrs. S. seemed puzzled
at the question. I believe she was enumerating
the names of our former servant girls in her
mind—girls that had been discharged or gone off
of themselves, from a disinclination to cleanliness,
coupled with a certain amount of work. “Godiva,”

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

said I, “or Godina, was the wife of Lord Leofrick,
of Coventry, in Warwickshire, England. He oppressed
the citizens with heavy taxes, and destroyed
their privileges. His wife interceded with him,
begged him to remit the weighty burden for her
sake. In jest, he promised to do so upon one consideration.”
“I remember it,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass.
“The condition was, that she should ride
through the streets of Coventry stark naked.”
Mrs. Sparrowgrass blushed up to her eyes. “But,
like a noble woman, she undertook the task, and
redeemed their liberties, by fulfilling his jest in
earnest.” “Poor thing,” said Mrs. S. “You remember,”
I continued, “how splendidly Tennyson
has painted the legend:

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

“How noble!” said Mrs. S. “Yes,” I replied,
“and now, after this, I want to read you my story.
I call it

THE NEW GODIVA.

Sometime after the year eighteen hundred and
fifty, a young Englishman landed at one of the
quays that afford accommodation to packet ships,
around the city of New York He had come to the
New World full of hope and enthusiasm, and he
stepped upon the quay without a penny in his
pocket. Seldom does an American find himself in
this condition, in a foreign port. Here it is so
familiar, so much of an every-day occurrence, that
sympathy has grown callous to the repetition of the
old story;—so this emigrant found, by bitter experience.
His fine, intelligent face, under a check-cloth
cap, presented itself at various counting-rooms
of the city. Check-cloth caps, in search of employment,
are common enough; and few merchants
can spare time to analyze the lineaments of a fine,
intelligent countenance.

So the young emigrant found no employment in

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

the busy, active city; the fine, intelligent countenance
suffered by unwholesome resting-places,
among funeral mahogany at night, and by pride
struggling with hunger in the day, until at last the
check-cloth cap bent over a stone mallet to beat
down the city cobble stones, for a corporation contractor.
Oh, the dreary, desolate city, crowded
with strangers! Oh, the bright alien sunshine,
that never lighted up a sympathetic face! Oh, the
green shores of Merrie England, that he had seen
sinking in the distant sea, with misty eyes! There
they all were; mother and brothers, and she, the
dear one—all! and every blow of the stone-rammer
went down like a sob. In no period of life is
disappointment so poignant as in youth. The
dreams of maturity are limited by experience, and
the awakening is almost anticipated. But youth
believes its gorgeous visions, and looks upon the
real, work-day world as a monstrous fable. But,
oh, the touch of the Ithuriel spear!

The stone-rammer, for months, steadily beat
down the cobble-stones. The check-cloth cap had
lost its pristine freshness; the fine, intelligent countenance
became dead, dull, apathetic. There was
a trifling sum deposited weekly in the Emigrants'

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

Saving Bank. It was all withdrawn one day. It
was the day the “Devonshire” Liverpool packet
sailed. From that day the check-cloth cap, and the
fine, intelligent countenance were seen no more by
the corporation contractor.

The “Devonshire” packet ship had a fine passage
out, and was beating up towards the Mersey
in little more than a fortnight after she bade farewell
to the American city. There she met another
packet ship, outward bound. The ships came so
near each other that passengers could recognize
faces on either deck. Amid the multitude of emigrants,
thronging the side of the outward-bound
packet, one face had particularly attracted the
attention of the passengers on the “Devonshire.”
It was that of an emigrant girl, a right English face,
in a Dunstable bonnet, but still strikingly lovely.
It was a face not simply beautiful only, it was
ideally so; one of those faces to inspire love in a
woman, adoration in a man, and respect in coarser
natures. It was not surprising, then, when one of
the younger passengers on the “Devonshire” proposed
at dinner, “the health of that English girl,”
that everybody understood it—that ladies and all
joined in the toast with enthusiasm.

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

One person alone, a steerage passenger on the
“Devonshire,” had been insensible to the excitement
occasioned by the passing ships. From the
time the blue land hove in sight, the inevitable
check-cloth cap, and fine intelligent countenance
had been turned shorewards, from the bowsprit.
Never once had that eager gaze been diverted from
the land; never once had it turned towards the
packet, outward bound!

A fragment of his history must be inserted in the
mosaic of the story. When he left home to seek
his fortune in the Western republic, he did so with
a feeling, a faith that seemed prophetic of success.
His talents, for he had talents; his perseverance,
for he had perseverance; his indefatigable industry,
for he had that also, assured him there could be no
failure. Nor would there have been, in time. Industry,
perseverance, and talent, may fearlessly
begin with the stone rammer, or even with a lower
calling. Begin, begin, somewhere—anywhere—
only begin. There is no position, no dignity, without
the inevitable steps. If need be, take the
lowest and surmount them. Here, then, might
have been laid the foundation of his fortunes, had
pride permitted; but that young, ardent spirit,

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

crushed by drudgery, saw the future only as a continuation
of the present; the busy world had rudely
thrust him aside; it is true, pride had succumbed
to hunger, and beat down the cobble stones, -but
this, to him, was not the dawn of hope, but the
sequel. Henceforth,
one thought controlled his
mind. “Home, home! return, return!” rang out
from the flinty pavements. There was the face of
mother, there were the faces of brothers, there was
her face, the face of his beloved one—his betrothed,
to whom, in his anguish, he had not written since
he first stepped upon the shores of the busy, heartless
New World. “Home, home!” was the constant
burthen, until the “Devonshire” packet carried
him, with his slender fortunes, once more
across the Atlantic. What was that outward-bound
ship to him, when his eyes were fixed again on
Merrie England, where they all were?

Not very long after this period, Mr. Ultramarine,
the famous artist, was arranging the drapery on his
lay-figure. A lay-figure is a huge doll, usually
about five feet three in height, kept in artists'
studios. Its joints are flexible, back, arms, neck,
et cetera, movable at will; it can be made to stand
up, to sit down or lie down, in fact, may be put in

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

any posture; its limbs, bust, body, are stuffed out
so as to cleverly represent womanity, in perfect
and divine proportions; its ordinary use is to be
dressed up as a lady, and to act as such in the studio.
For example, Mrs. Honiton is sitting for her
portrait, the lovely face, the rounded arms, the taper
fingers, are transferred to the canvas; but Mrs.
Honiton's elaborate dress must also be painted, and
a two hours' sitting, day after day, is tiresome and
tedious. The lay-figure then becomes useful, and
plays a brief part in society. For a period, it represents
Mrs. Honiton. While Mr. Ultramarine is
finishing the picture, it wears her brocades, velvets,
shawl, bertha, bracelets, lace-sleeves, with becoming
dignity. There is one peculiarity in lay figures,
sometimes objectionable. They are apt to transfer
an air of stiffness to the likeness; this, however,
may be also in the original, and then the effect is
wonderful.

Mr. Ultramarine could not arrange the drapery
on the lay-figure's
to suit his fancy. The delicate,
careless curve of Mrs. Honiton's arm, holding the
thrown-off shawl, was beyond the lay-figure's
ability. So Mr. Ultramarine gave it up, and went
on setting his pallet, with now and then a fiendish

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

look at his lay-figure. There was that rigid arm,
stiffly holding out the shawl, with the precision of
porcelain; completely excluding the idea Mr. U.
wished to portray, of carelessness.

There is always, in every studio, of every artist
in the city of New York, in the morning, before
visitors arrive, a respectable, elderly female. Her
duties are sweeping and dusting. By constantly
breathing its magic atmosphere, she often gains an
intuitive conception of art, beyond even the skill
of the newspaper critic. The respectable elderly
female who was putting Mr. Ultramarine to rights,
understood the difficulty at once. She glanced at
the artist and at the shawled manikin. Then she
hushed the music of the broom, and said, timidly,
“Please, sir, there is a poor creature, a young English
girl, sir, at my room, a living with me, that
would be glad to earn a shilling or two; and she
would hold you shawl just as you want it.” Mr.
Ultramarine squeezed a little vermilion out of the
capsule upon his pallet, and looked up. “Hum,”
he replied, “a coarse creature, I presume.” This
was said in a kind voice, with a lingering accent
on “coarse creature,” that did not convey hurshness
by any means. “No, sir,” she answered, “I

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

would call her an English beauty. The finest face
and figure, sir.” “Dear me,” said the artist, “why
did you not speak of it before? Can you bring her
now, Mrs. Hill?” “I can, sir,” she replied, “immegently.”
So Mrs. Hill left the studio for the
model, and Mr. U. went on preparing Mrs. Honiton's
toilet on his pallet. He squeezed a tiny pod
of blue in one place, then mixed it with white, in a
variety of tints' then he smeared another place
over with Vandyke brown; then he dropped a
curious little worm of yellow ochre, out of another
capsule; then the pallet-knife dipped into a patch
of white, and then the ochre was graduated into
various tints; then he dug a mass of magilp out of
a bottle, and put that on the board; then glanced
on the lovely Honiton, and again took up another
capsule, from which he pressed a cogent blush of
carmine. Then the door opened, after a short
knock, and in walked Mrs. Hill and the model.
Under a plain English bonnet was the same face
the passengers on the “Devonshire” had seen
looking over the side of the packet, outward-bound.

Mr. Ultramarine was a painter, and felt the
divine inspiration of his profession realized in that
face. But when the model had been arrayed by

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

Mrs. Hill in the ante-room in the splendid dress of
Mrs. Honiton, and stood upon the dais, the effect
was bewildering. “Such,” said the artist to himself,
“was the face Raphael knew and painted, and
men turned from Divinity to worship art in the
ideal Virgin. It is not surprising the church has
made so many proselytes.”

Mr. Ultramarine was an artist; he set to work
manfully and painted the shawl. There was an
ease and grace in the careless curve of the living
arm holding it, that made lay-figure absolutely
repulsive. He put lay-figure in one corner of his
studio, and covered her all over with old coats,
pantaloons, a rug, and bit of curtain, besides piling
on his fishing-rod, and laying a cracked pallet on
top, by way of cap-stone. In a few days Mrs.
Honiton was done. Alas, Mr. Ultramarine had not
another lady sitter just then; there were a score of
gentlemen whose portraits had to be painted.
They must be painted; he had a family to support,
and not much to do it with. He must pay the
model and send her away. So he told her simply
and kindly, and then—

The model turned deadly pale, essayed to speak,
failed, and fainted outright.

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

Mr. Ultramarine took it into his head that the
model had fallen in love with him. Never was he
more mistaken, nor more relieved when he found
he was mistaken. He carried the helpless form to
a chair, bathed the Madonna face with water, and
brought the model to.

Then came the story. She was betrothed; her
lover had left England for America months ago;
she had waited patiently to hear from him by letter;
steamer after steamer arrived, but no letter.
In the seclusion of her native village suspense had
become intolerable. She determined to follow him.
Not for an instant doubting his faith, but fearing
all that woman can fear save that. Never did she
think she could not find him; no, not if he were in
the world. She had traced him even in the wilderness
of New York, until at last she found he had
taken passage to England again by the “Devonshire.”
For her there was but one thought, one
hope, one overpowering desire. That was also to
return, speedily, instantly, if possible, but—she
was almost penniless.

When she had concluded, a bright idea suggested
itself to Mr. Ultramarine, and played with a
lambent light over his features. “My child,” said

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

he, “it would be impossible for me to assist you
with means sufficient for your purpose, but I can
tell you of a way by which you can make enough
to enable you to return, and make it speedily too.
We are in want of a nude model for the National
Academy of Design. Our present models have
been so long on the carpet that they have grown
too stringy even for high art. You understand me,
we are in want of a nude model for the life school.
If you will consent to sit, you can speedily earn
enough to enable you to return, say in a few
weeks.”

What was passing in that young mind while the
artist was saying this, in a plain matter-of-fact way?
What terrible thoughts were being balanced there?
What years of blinding toil, to earn even a pittance
for daily support, with no hope of regaining far-off
England, were being weighed against this startling
alternative? With all there was a little flush of
hope;—in a month she could be on the broad
ocean; once more she would see him for whom she
had suffered so much; and in that pure, maiden
heart arose the determination to make the sacrifice.
So, when the burning blush left her features, and
she had heard all, it was a face as calm as marble

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

that bowed assent, meekly but firmly, and then she
went forth from the studio.

In the National Academy of Design there are
two schools of art—the Antique and the Life. The
first comprises casts of the famous statues, the Farnese
Hercules, the Venus de Medici, the Apollo
Belvidere, Thorwaldsen's Mercury with the pipe,
and Venus with the apple, the Nymph of the bath,
Venus Victrix, the Greek Suppliant, and other immortal
achievements. Here the neophytes of the
Academy assemble in winter to draw from the
casts. In the adjoining room maturer students
copy from life. In no place is the ennobling influence
of art more apparent than in the Life-school.
The sacred stillness of the place, the calm, earnest
faces of the sketchers, the statue-like repose of the
living model; the analytical experience constantly
suggested by the nude figure—the muscles, first
round and firm, then flattened, then lax and
shrunken by the hour's duty, teaching the physical
aspects of nature in various conditions, from which
the true painter draws the splendid corollary,
“that art represents nature best, when art comprehends
nature in all its developments.”

Was there no shrinking in that young creature's

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

heart when they had left her alone in the unrobing
room? Was there no touch of unconscious pride
as she stood at last, in her abundant beauty, before
the mirror? Did she not hesitate as she opened
the door, and stepped forth upon the curtained
dais? Or, was that pure, innocent breast so unsullied,
that even to shame it was alien? The truly
good alone can answer this question.

To the most discreet, the wisest, and the gravest
counsellors of the Academy is confided the delicate
task of arranging the pose of the nude model on the
dais. Then the curtains are drawn, and the figure
is revealed to the students. There are usually three
of these counsellors; for, “in a multitude of counsellors
is wisdom.” This time no artistic interference
was needed. The natural posture of the
nude figure upon the dais-sofa was one of such exquisite
grace that it rivalled even the Greek marble.
So the wise greybeards of the Academy besought
the model to sit perfectly still, and with this
slight premonition, the curtains were swept away,
and a flood of light fell upon the dais and Godiva.

Thou white chastity! Amid that blaze of eager
eyes now fastened upon thy beauties, there is not a
soul so base as to harbor one evil thought of thee!

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

Here, where “art's pure dwellers are,” thou art
secure as in a shrine!

The hour's probation is over: the curtains close.
And now the touching history of her love is told
by Mr. Ultramarine to the listening students, and
ere the Madonna face is hidden again in the Dunstable
bonnet, the artists before the curtain have
a little gift for the model. It is a purse, not heavy,
but sufficient. Young artists cannot give much.
But there was an unanimous determination that
she should be protected by them until such time as
she could be safely placed on a steamer “outward
bound.” And before a week had elapsed she stood
again upon a deck; and never were farewells,
waved to the departing passengers of the “Atlantic,”
fuller of generous sympathy, than those that
bade adieu to Godiva!

“Is that all?” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, as I rolled
up the manuscript. “That is all, my dear.”
“Did she find her lover?” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass.
“I do not know,” I replied; “but I suppose she
did.” “I hope she did,” said Mrs. S., “from the
bottom of my heart I do.”—(A pause.)—“Come,”

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

said I, “it is late. To-morrow we must rise early,
for you know the man is to bring the other horse
here;—the one that belongs to his brother, Mrs.
Sparrowgrass.”

p529-127 CHAPTER IX.

A Horse of another color—Anelent and Modern Points of a Horse—A suspected
Organ and Retrograde Movement—Mr. Sparrowgrass buys the Horse that
belongs to the Man's Brother—A valuable Hint as to Stable-building—A
Morning Ride, and a Discovery—Old Dockweed—An Evening Ride, and a
Catastrophe.

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

“It rains very hard,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
looking out of the window next morning. Sure
enough, the rain was sweeping broadcast over the
country, and the four Sparrowgrassii were flattening
a quartette of noses against the window-panes,
believing most faithfully the man would bring the
horse that belonged to his brother, in spite of the
elements. It was hoping against hope: no man
having a horse to sell will trot him out in a rain-storm,
unless he intend to sell him at a bargain—but
childhood is so credulous! The succeeding morning
was bright, however, and down came the horse.
He had been very cleverly groomed, and looked
pleasant under the saddle. The man led him back

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

and forth before the door. “There, squire, 's as
good a hos as ever stood on iron.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
asked me what he meant by that. I replied,
it was a figurative way of expressing, in horse-talk,
that he was as good a horse as ever stood in shoeleather.
“He's a handsome hos, squire,” said
the man. I replied that he did seem to be a goodlooking
animal, but, said I, “he does not quite
come up to the description of a horse I have read.”
“Whose hos was it?” said he. I replied it was the
horse of Adonis. He said he didn't know him,
but, he added, “there is so many hosses stolen,
that the descriptions are stuck up now pretty common.”
To put him at his ease (for he seemed to
think I suspected him of having stolen the horse),
I told him the description I meant had been written
some hundreds of years ago by Shakspeare,
and repeated it—

“Squire,” said he, “that will do for a song, but
it ain't no p'ints of a good hos. Trotters now-a-days

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

go in all shapes, big heads and little heads, big
eyes and little eyes, short ears or long ones, thick
tail and no tail; so as they have sound legs, good
l'in, good barrel, and good stifle, and wind, squire,
and speed well, they'll fetch a price. Now, this
animal is what I call a hos, squire; he's got the
p'ints, he's stylish, he's close-ribbed, a free goer,
kind in harness—single or double—a good feeder.”
I asked him if being a good feeder was a desirable
quality. He replied it was; “of course,” said he,
“if your hos is off his feed, he ain't good for nothin'.
But what's the use,” he added, “of me tellin' you
the p'ints of a good hos? You're a hos man,
squire: you know”— “It seems to me,” said I,
“there is something the matter with that left eye.”
“No, sir,” said he, and with that he pulled down
the horse's head, and, rapidly crooking his fore-finger
at the suspected organ, said, “see thar—
don't wink a bit.” “But he should wink,” I
replied. “Not onless his eye are weak,” he said.
To satisfy myself, I asked the man to let me take
the bridle. He did so, and, so soon as I took hold
of it, the horse started off in a remarkable retrograde
movement, dragging me with him into my
best bed of hybrid roses. Finding we were

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

trampling down all the best plants, that had cost at auction
from three-and-sixpence to seven shillings
apiece, and that the more I pulled, the more he
backed, I finally let him have his own way, and
jammed him stern-foremost into our largest climbing
rose that had been all summer prickling itself,
in order to look as much like a vegetable porcupine
as possible. This unexpected bit of satire in his
rear changed his retrograde movement to a sidelong
bound, by which he flirted off half the pots
on the balusters, upsetting my gladioluses and tuberoses
in the pod, and leaving great splashes of
mould, geraniums, and red pottery in the gravel
walk. By this time his owner had managed to
give him two pretty severe cuts with the whip,
which made him unmanageable, so I let him go.
We had a pleasant time catching him again, when
he got among the Lima bean-poles; but his owner
led him back with a very self-satisfied expression.
“Playful, ain't he, squire?” I replied that I
thought he was, and asked him if it was usual for
his horse to play such pranks. He said it was not.
“You see, squire, he feels his oats, and hain't been
out of the stable for a month. Use him, and he's as
kind as a kitten.” With that he put his foot in

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

the stirrup, and mounted. The animal really
looked very well as he moved around the grass plot,
and, as Mrs. Sparrowgrass seemed to fancy him, I
took a written guarantee that he was sound, and
bought him. What I gave for him is a secret; I
have not even told Mrs. Sparrowgrass.

It is a mooted point whether it is best to buy
your horse before you build your stable, or build
your stable before you buy your horse. A horse
without a stable is like a bishop without a church.
Our neighbor, who is very ingenious, built his stable
to fit his horse. He took the length of his
horse and a little over, as the measure of the depth
of his stable; then he built it. He had a place
beside the stall for his Rockaway carriage. When
he came to put the Rockaway in, he found he had
not allowed for the shafts! The ceiling was too
low to allow them to be erected, so he cut two
square port-holes in the back of his stable and run
his shafts through them, into the chicken-house
behind. Of course, whenever he wanted to take
out his carriage, he had to unroost all his fowls,
who would sit on his shafts, night and day. But
that was- better than building a new stable. For
my part, I determined to avoid mistakes, by getting

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

the horse and carriage both first, and then to build the
stable. This plan, being acceptable to Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
was adopted, as judicious and expedient.
In consequence, I found myself with a horse on my
hands with no place to put him. Fortunately, I
was acquainted with a very honest man who kept
a livery stable, where I put him to board by the
month, and in order that he might have plenty of
good oats, I bought some, which I gave to the
ostler for that purpose. The man of whom I bought
the horse did not deceive me, when he represented
him as a great feeder. He ate more oats than all
the rest of the horses put together in that stable.

It is a good thing to have a saddle-horse in the
country. The early morning ride, when dawn and
dew freshen and flush the landscape, is comparable
to no earthly, innocent pleasure. Look at yonder
avenue of road-skirting trees. Those marvellous
trunks, yet moist, are ruddy as obelisks of jasper!
And above—see the leaves blushing at the east!
Hark to the music! interminable chains of melody
linking earth and sky with its delicious magic.
The little, countless wood-birds are singing! and
now rolls up from the mown meadow the fragrance
of cut grass and clover.

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

Look at the river with its veil of blue mist! and
the grim, gaunt old Palisades, as amiable in their
orient crowns as old princes, out of the direct line
of succession, over the royal cradle of the heir
apparent!

There is one thing about early riding in the
country; you find out a great many things which,
perhaps, you would not have found out under ordinary
circumstances. The first thing I found out
was, that my horse had the heaves. I had been so
wrapt up in the beauties of the morning, that I had
not observed, what perhaps everybody in that vicinity
had observed, namely, that the new horse had
been waking up all the sleepers on both sides of the
road with an asthmatic whistle, of half-a-mile
power. My attention was called to the fact by the

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

village teamster, old Dockweed, who came banging
after me in his empty cart, shouting out my
name as he came. I must say, I have always disliked
old Dockweed's familiarity; he presumes too
much upon my good nature, when he calls me
Sparrygrass before ladies at the dépôt, and by my
Christian name always on the Sabbath, when he is
dressed up. On this occasion, what with the
horse's vocal powers and old Dockweed's, the affair
was pretty well blown over the village before breakfast.
“Sparrygrass,” he said, as he came up,
“that your hos?” I replied, that the horse was my
property. “Got the heaves, ain't he? got'em bad.”
Just then a window was pushed open, and the
white head of the old gentleman, who sits in the
third pew in front of our pew in church, was thrust
out. “What's the matter with your horse?” said
he. “Got the heaves,” replied old Dockweed,
“got'em bad.” Then, I heard symptoms of opening
a blind on the other side of the road, and as I
did not wish to run the gauntlet of such inquiries,
I rode off on a cross road; but not before I heard,
above the sound of pulmonary complaint, the voice
of old Dockweed explaining to the other cottage,
“Sparrygrass—got a hos—got the heaves—got'em

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

bad.” I was so much ashamed, that I took a roundabout
road to the stable, and instead of coming
home like a fresh and gallant cavalier, on a hand
gallop, I walked my purchase to the stable, and
dismounted with a chastened spirit.

“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, with a
face beaming all over with smiles, “how did you
like your horse?” I replied that he was not quite
so fine a saddle-horse as I had anticipated, but I
added, brightening up, for good humor is sympathetic,
“he will make a good horse, I think, after
all, for you and the children to jog around with in
a wagon.” “Oh, won't that be pleasant!” said
Mrs. Sparrowgrass.

Farewell, then, rural rides, and rural roads
o'mornings! Farewell, song birds, and jasper
colonnades; farewell misty river, and rocky Palisades;
farewell mown honey-breath, farewell stirrup
and bridle, dawn and dew, we must jog on at
a foot pace. After all, it is better for your horse
to have a pulmonary complaint than have it
yourself.

I had determined not to build a stable, nor to
buy a carriage, until I had thoroughly tested my
horse in harness. For this purpose, I hired a

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

Rockaway of the stable-keeper. Then I put Mrs.
Sparrowgrass and the young ones in the double
seats, and took the ribbons for a little drive by the
Nepperhan river road. The Nepperhan is a quiet
stream that for centuries has wound its way through
the ancient dorp of Yonkers. Geologists may
trace the movements of time upon the rocky dial
of the Palisades, and estimate the age of the more
modern Hudson by the foot-prints of sauriæ in the
strata that fringe its banks, but it is impossible to
escape the conviction, as you ride beside the Nepperhan,
that it is a very old stream—that it is
entirely independent of earthquakes—that its birth
was of primeval antiquity—and, no doubt, that it
meandered through Westchester valleys when the
Hudson was only a fresh water lake, land-locked
somewhere above Poughkeepsie. It was a lovely
afternoon. The sun was sloping westward, the
meadows

We had passed Chicken Island, and the famous
house with the stone gable and the one stone chimney,
in which General Washington slept, as he

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

made it a point to sleep in every old stone house in
Westchester county, and had gone pretty far on
the road, past the cemetery, when Mrs. Sparrowgrass
said suddenly, “Dear, what is the matter
with your horse?” As I had been telling the children
all the stories about the river on the way, I
had managed to get my head pretty well inside of
the carriage, and, at the time she spoke, was keeping
a look-out in front with my back. The romark
of Mrs. Sparrowgrass induced me to turn about,
and I found the new horse behaving in a most unaccountable
manner. He was going down hill with
his nose almost to the ground, running the wagon
first on this side and then on the other. I thought
of the remark made by the man, and turning again
to Mrs. Sparrowgrass, said, “Playful, isn't he?”
The next moment I heard something breaking
away in front, and then the Rockaway gave a lurch
and stood still. Upon examination I found the
new horse had tumbled down, broken one shaft,
gotten the other through the check-rein so as to
bring his head up with a round-turn, and besides
had managed to put one of the traces in a single
hitch around his off hind leg. So soon as I had
taken all the young ones and Mrs. Sparrowgrass

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

out of the Rockaway, I set to work to liberate the
horse, who was chocking very fast with the check-rein.
It is unpleasant to get your fishing-line in a
tangle when you are in a hurry for bites, but I
never saw fishing-line in such a tangle as that harness.
However, I set to work with a penknife, and
cut him out in such a way as to make getting home
by our conveyance impossible. When he got up,
he was the sleepiest looking horse I ever saw.
“Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I, “won't you stay here
with the children until I go to the nearest farmhouse?”
Mrs. Sparrowgrass replied that she would.
Then I took the horse with me to get him out of the
way of the children, and went in search of assistance.
The first thing the new horse did when he
got about a quarter of a mile from the scene of
the accident, was to tumble down a bank. Fortunately
the bank was not over four feet high, but as
I went with him, my trowsers were rent in a grievous
place. While I was getting the new horse
on his feet again, I saw a colored person approaching,
who came to my assistance. The first thing
he did was to pull out a large jack-knife, and the
next thing he did was to open the new horse's
mouth and run the blade two or three times inside

[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]

of the new horse's gums. Then the new horse commenced
bleeding. “Dah, sah,” said the man,
shutting up his jack-knife, “ef't hadn't been for
dat yer, your hos would a' bin a goner.” “What
was the matter with him?” said I. “Oh, he's ony
jis got de blind-staggers, das all. Say,” said
he, before I was half indignant enough at the man
who had sold me such an animal, “say, ain't your
name Sparrowgrass?” I replied that my name
was Sparrowgrass. “Oh,” said he, “I knows you,
I brung some fowls once down to you place. I
heerd about you, and you hos. Dats de hos dats
got de heaves so bad, heh! heh! You better sell
dat hos.” I determined to take his advice, and
employed him to lead my purchase to the nearest
place where he would be cared for. Then I went
back to the Rockaway, but met Mrs. Sparrowgrass
and the children on the road coming to meet me.
She had left a man in charge of the Rockaway.
When we got to the Rockaway we found the man
missing, also the whip and one cushion. We got
another person to take charge of the Rockaway,
and had a pleasant walk home by moonlight. I
think a moonlight night delicious, upon the Hud-

[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]

Does any person want a horse at a low price?
A good, stylish-looking animal, close-ribbed, good
loin, and good stifle, sound legs, with only the
heaves and blind-staggers, and a slight defect in
one of his eyes? If at any time he slips his bridle
and gets away, you can always approach him by
getting on his left side. I will also engage to give
a written guarantee that he is sound and kind,
signed by the brother of his former owner.

p529-141 CHAPTER X.

Children—An Interrupted Discourse—Mrs. Sparrowgrass makes a Brilliant
Remark—Philadelphia Phrases—Another Interruption—Quakers—A few
Quakeristics—A Quaker Baby—The Early Quakers—John Woolman—Thomas
Lurting—Broadbrims in a Cathedral—And a Friendly Suggestion.

[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

CHILDREN, God bless them! Who can help
loving them! Children, God bless them! are the
only beings for whom we have no “imperfect sympathies.”
We love them through and through.
There is nothing conventional in the hearty laugh
of a child. The smile of a child is unsuspectable
of artifice. I once corrected one of my little ones,
and put him to bed, for having been stubborn at
his letters. Then I waited until he fell asleep, and
then I watched beside him until he slumbered out
his sorrows. When he opened his eyes, he stretched
out his little arms, smiled up in my face, and forgave
me. The Lord forgive me for the whaling I
gave him! I owe him an apology, which I intend

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

to make so soon as he is old enough to understand
it. There is nothing so odious to the mind of a
child as injustice, and young married people are
prone to expect too much, and exact too much of
their eldest born. If then we are unjustly severe
from our want of experience, it seem to me there
is something due, some reparation on our part, due
to the individual whose feelings we have injured.
If we lose temper with a gentleman six feet high,
and call him hard names, we often find it convenient
to apologize. It seems to me that three feet
of wounded sensibility is, at least, entitled to
respectful consideration. What do you think of
that, Mrs. Sparrowgrass? Mrs. Sparrowgrass said
she thought it was true. “How much,” I continued,
reflectively, “children occupy the father's
mind.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “and the
mother's.” “Children,” said I, “are to the father
as weights are to the clock—they keep him steady
and they keep him busy.”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass looked up from the plaid patch
of new gingham she was needling into the breast
of a faded gingham apron, and nodded significantly:
“True,” said she, “you are the hour hand, but I
am the minute hand.”

[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]

As this was the most brilliant remark Mrs. S.
had made for months, I was silent for some time.

“My dear,” said I, after a pause, “speaking of
children, I wish you would not teach the young
ones so many of your Philadelphia phrases.” Mrs.
Sparrowgrass looked surprised. “You know, my
dear,” I continued, “how proud I am this year,
and justly proud, too, of our musk-melons?”
“Well?” “And when Uncle Sourgrass was here
the other day, what should Ivanhoe do but ask him
to go out to look at the cantelopes.” “Well, what
of that?” said Mrs. S. “Cantelope,” said I, “in
this part of the world, is the name of a very inferior
species of melon, and I would not have had
Uncle Sourgrass think we had nothing but cantelopes
in the garden, upon any account.” “You
wouldn't?” “No! You call all kinds of melons
`cantelopes' in Philadelphia, but permit me to say
that it is a local error, which should not be transplanted
and trained in juvenile minds on the banks
of the Hudson.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass was much
impressed by this horticultural figure. “Then,
when visitors come, you always will take them to
see that patch of `Queen Margarets,' and everybody
gets disappointed to find they are only

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

Chinaasters.” “Well?” “And there is another thing
too Mrs. Sparrowgrass; next Christmas Santa
Claus, if you please—no Kriss Kringle. Santa
Claus is the patron saint, Mrs. Sparrowgrass, of the
New Netherlands, and the ancient Dorp of Yonkers;
he it is who fills the fireside stockings; he
only can come down Westchester chimneys, and I
would much prefer not to have the children's
minds, and the flue, occupied with his Pennsylvania
prototype. And, since I must speak of it, why
will you always call a quail a partridge? All you
Philadelphians will call a quail a partridge. Did
you ever read Audubon?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
said she never had. “Wilson?” “Never.”
“Charles Bonaparte?” (A dead silence.) “Nor
any other work on ornithology?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
said there was a little bundle of remnants and
patches in the upper part of the closet, which she
wished I would reach down. “A quail,” I continued,
as I reached down the bundle, “is not a
partridge, my dear.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said the
next time we had partridges she would call them
all quails, as she supposed I knew which was correct
better than she did. With that she unrolled

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

the bundle and drew therefrom a long, triangular
piece of faded, mouse-colored silk.

There are moments when I feel as if I would like
to launch into a little sea of language, and spread a
nautilus sail in delicate air. The great, three-deckers
of thought, the noble orators and splendid
statesmen, require the broader and more turbulent
ocean for their ponderous movements. But for
me, who have seen something of the eloquent world,
from the magnates of the senate, in palmy days,
down to the present windy representatives of the
great metropolis in Common Council assembled,
there seems to be a more captivating charm in
those lighter crafts that float in safety over the shallows
of polite conversation, and venture securely
amid the rocks and whirlpools of social argument.
Who has not felt as if he would like to preach for
half an hour or so upon some favorite text or topic?
Who has not, in some auspicious instant, been so
fortified in argument as to absolutely suffer for the
stimulant of opposition, to enable him to unload his
mind and be comfortable? Mrs. Sparrowgrass, by
an ill-timed, brilliant remark, had broken the
thread of my discourse upon children, and she had

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

put an end to my argument against local phrases,
by requesting me to reach down a piebald bundle
of patches. But from that roll of remnants she
had drawn forth a long, triangular piece of mouse-colored
silk. The tint was suggestive. It was a
text, a thesis, that would bear amplifying. So I at
once started off. “My dear, do you know I have
long felt as if I would like to be one of the society
called `Friends?' ” Mrs. Sparrowgrass replied,
she did not know I had contemplated so serious a
departure from the rules of propriety. “My dear,”
I said, “no person has a greater feeling of respect
and regard than I have for the sect that so unjustly
bears the name of

QUAKERS.

“There is something, in the very aspect of a
`Friend,' suggestive of peace and good will.
Verily, if it were not for the broad-brimmed hat,
and the straight coat, which the world's people call
`shad,' I would be a Quaker. But for the life of
me I cannot resist the effect of the grotesque and
the odd. I must smile, oftenest at myself. I could
not keep within drab garments and the bounds of

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

propriety. Incongruity would read me out of
meeting. To be reined in under a plain hat would
be impossible. Besides, I doubt whether any one
accustomed to the world's pleasures could be a
Quaker. Who, once familiar with Shakspeare and
the opera, could resist a favorite air on a hand
organ, or pass, undisturbed, `Hamlet!' in capital
letters on a play bill? To be a Quaker, one must
be a Quaker born. In spite of Sydney Smith, there
is such a thing as a Quaker baby. In fact, I have
seen it—a diminutive demurity, a stiff-plait in the
bud. It had round blue eyes, and a face that
expressed resignation in spite of the stomach-ache.
It had no lace on its baby-cap, no embroidered
nonsense on its petticoat. It had no beads, no ribbons,
no rattle, no bells, no coral. Its plain garments
were innocent of inserting and edging; its
socks were not of the color of the world's people's
baby. It was as punctiliously silent as a silent
meeting, and sat up rigidly in its mother's lap,
twirling its thumbs and cutting its teeth without a
gum-ring. It never cried, nor clapped its hands,
and would not have said `papa' if it had been tied
to the stake. When it went to sleep it was hushed
without a song, and they laid it in a drab-colored

[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]

cradle without a rocker. Don't interrupt me, I
have seen it, Mrs. Sparrowgrass!

“Something I have observed too, remarkably,
strikingly Quakeristic. The young maidens and
the young men never seem inclined to be fat.
Such a thing as a maiden lady, nineteen years of
age, with a pound of superfluous flesh, is not known
among Friends. The young men sometimes grow
outside the limits of a straight coat, and when they
do, they quietly change into the habits of ordinary
men. Either they are read out of meeting, or else
they lose their hold when they get too round and
too ripe, and just drop off. Remarkably Quakeristic,
too, is an exemption the Friends appear to
enjoy from diseases and complaints peculiar to other
people. Who ever saw a Quaker marked with the
small-pox, or a Quaker with the face-ache? Who
ever saw a cross-eyed Quaker, or a decided case of
mumps under a broad-brimmed hat? Nobody.
Mrs. Sparrowgrass, don't interrupt me. Doubtless
much of this is owing to their cleanliness, duplex
cleanliness, purity of body and soul. I saw a face
in the cars, not long since—a face that had calmly
endured the storms of seventy yearly meetings. It
was a hot, dry day, the windows were all open;

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dust was pouring into the cars; eye-brows, eye-lashes,
ends of hair, mustachios, wigs, coat-collars,
sleeves, waistcoats, and trowsers of the world's people,
were touched with a fine tawny color. Their
faces had a general appearance of humidity in
streaks, now and then tatooed with a black cinder;
but there, within a satin bonnet (Turk's satin), a
bonnet made after the fashion of Professor Espy's
patent ventilator, was a face of seventy years, calm
as a summer morning, smooth as an infant's, without
one speck or stain of dust, without one touch
of perspiration, or exasperation, Mrs. S. No, nor
was there, on the cross-pinned 'kerchief, nor on the
elaborately plain dress, one atom of earthy contact;
the very air did seem to respect that aged Quakeress.

“Mrs. Sparrowgrass, don't interrupt me. Did
you ever, my dear, `get the writings of John Woolman
by heart, and love the early Quakers,' as beloved
Charles Lamb recommends? No? Then
let me advise you to read the book, and learn something
of one who had felt the efficacy of that power,
which, as he says, `prepares the creature to stand
like a trumpet, through which the Lord speaks to
his people.' Here is a little story of his early

[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]

childhood, which I want you to read to the children
now and then.

“ `Once going to a neighbor's house, I saw, on
the way, a Robin sitting on her nest, and, as I came
near, she went off; but, having young ones, flew
about, and, with many cries, expressed her concern
for them. I stood and threw stones at her, till, one
striking her, she fell down dead. At first, I was
pleased with the exploit; but, after a few minutes,
was seized with horror, as having, in a sportive
way, killed an innocent creature while she was
careful of her young. I beheld her lying dead,
and thought those young ones, for which she was
so careful, must now perish for the want of their
dam to nourish them; and, after some painful considerations
on the subject, I climbed up the tree,
took all the young birds, and killed them, supposing
that better than to leave them to pine away and
die miserably; and believed, in this case, that
Scripture proverb was fulfilled, “The tender mercies
of the wicked are cruel.” I then went on my
errand; but, for some hours, could think of nothing
else but the cruelties I had committed, and was
much troubled. Thus He, whose tender mercies
are above all his works, hath placed a principle in

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

the human mind, which incites to exercise goodness
toward every living creature; and this being
singly attended to, people become tender-hearted
and sympathizing; but being frequently and
totally rejected, the mind becomes shut up in a
contrary disposition.'

“Don't interrupt me, my dear. And Thomas
Lurting, too; his adventures are well worth reading
to the children. A Quaker sailor, the mate of
a Quaker ship, manned with a Quaker crew, every
one of which had a straight collar to his pea-jacket,
and a tarpaulin, with at least three feet diameter of
brim. Thomas Lurting, whose ship was captured
by Algerine pirates after a hard chase, and who
welcomed them on board as if they had been brothers.
Then, when the Quaker vessel and the
Algerine were separated by a storm, how friendly
those salt-water non-resistants were to their captors
on board their own vessel; with what alacrity did
they go aloft to take in sail, or to shake out a reef,
until those heathen pirates left the handling of the
ship entirely to their broad-brimmed brethren, and
went to sleep in the cabin; and then, what did the
Quakers do but first shut the cabin doors, and fasten
them, so that the Turks could not get out again?

[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]

And then, fearless of danger, they steered for the
Barbary coast, and made those fierce, mustached
pirates get into a small boat (they had been for ever
locked up else), and rowed them to the shore; and
when the Turks found themselves in a small boat
with but a small crew of broad-brims, and gave
signs of mutiny, what did the brave Thomas Lurting?
Lay violent hands on them? Draw a cutlass,
or cock a pistol? No, he merely struck the
leader `a pretty heavy blow with a boat-hook, telling
him to sit still and be quiet,' as he says himself,
`thinking it was better to stun a man than to kill
him.' And so he got the pirates on shore, and in
their own country. Brave Thomas Lurting! True?
Of course, it is true.

“The most singular spectacle I ever witnessed
was the burial-service over a Quaker, in a Catholic
cathedral. He had formerly been the rigidest of
his sect—a man who had believed the mitre and
crozier to be little better than the horns and tail of
the evil one—a man who had looked upon church
music and polygamy with equal abhorrence, and
who would rather have been burnt himself than
burn a Roman candle on the anniversary of the
national jubilee. Yet, by one of those inexplicable

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

inconsistencies, peculiar to mere men, but rare
among Quakers, he had seceded from the faith of
his fathers, and become one of the most zealous of
papists.

“The grand altar was radiant with wax tapers;
the priests on either side, in glittering dresses, were
chanting responses; the censer boys, in red and
white garments, swung the smoke of myrrh and
frankincense into the air, and as the fragant mist
rolled up and hung in rosy clouds under the lofty,
stained-glass windows, the great organ panted forth
the requiem. Marvellously contrasted with this
pomp and display appeared the crowd of broad-brims
and stiff-plaits, the friends and relatives of
the deceased. Never, perhaps, had such an andience
been grathered in such a place in the world
before. The scene, to the priests themselves, must
have been novel and striking. Instead of the usual
display of reverence, instead of the customary show
of bare heads and bended knees, every Quaker
stood stoutly on his legs, with his broad-brimmed
hat clinging to his head as strongly as his faith to
his heart. Disciplined as they had been in many
a silent meeting, during the entire mass not one of
the broad-brims moved an inch until the service

[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]

was over. Then the coffin was opened and
solemnly, silently, decorously, the brethren and
sisters moved towards it to look, for the last time,
upon the face of the seceder. Then silently,
solemnly, decorously, they moved from the Popish
temple. `I saw,' said one of the sisters, `that he
(meaning the departed ex-Quaker) had on worked
slippers with silver soles, what does thee think that
was for?' The person spoken to wore a hat with a
goodly brim. Without moving his head, he rolled
around, sideways, two Quakeristic eyes, large blue
eyes, with little inky dots of pupils, like small black
islands in oceans of buttermilk, and said, awfully—
`I suppose they was to walk through Purgatory
with.' ”

“I do not believe it,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass.
“Nevertheless, my dear, it is true,” I replied;
“true, every word of it. You have not seen all the
world yet, my dear; it is a very large place—a
very large place, indeed, Mrs. Sparrowgrass.”

p529-155 CHAPTER XI.

Our new Horse improves—He is loaned to to a Neighbor, and disgraces himself—
Autumnal Vegetation—The Palisades and Rock Cataract—An agreeable
Surprise—Mr. Sparrowgrass takes a short trip to the County of Broome——
Meets with a Disappointment on his Return, but indulges in a flowing vein
of “Adversity's sweet milk.”

[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]

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 cousequence, that it was all
right, and she never would have thought of it at all,

[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]

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 sugarmaples,
golden at the top, and the deeper green
leaves of the swamp-maple, are bound with a florid
border. The pointed foliage of the gum-tree comes

[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]

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 blad, 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

[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]

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 summervoice,
on the earth. We shall miss our beetles,
though; we shall see no 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

[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]

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 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 out 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

[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]

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

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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 thin 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.

[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]

Not 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, 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

[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]

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. Peapod 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

[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]

pictures. 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

[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]

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. Sparrograss, “tell your story,
and then let me tell mine!” “Wasn't he stolen?”
said I, beginning to fear that some news of an

[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]

unpleasant nature was in store for me. “I do not
know whether he was stolen or whether he strayed
away; but at 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

[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]

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—


`Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which we cannot destroy.'
You had, at least, the pleasure of riding after him
once; and I had the pleasure of hearing that he
was stolen—once. Perhaps somebody may take a
fancy to him yet, Mrs. Sparrowgrass.”

p529-169 CHAPTER XII.

Our New Barber—Reminiscences of our Old Barber—A Dog of another Color—
October Woods—A Party on the Water—Home, Sweet Home, with Variations
(flute obligato)—A row to the Palisades—Iroquois Legend—Return to the
Cottage.

[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]

We have gotten a new barber in the village.
It is a good thing to have a barber in the country.
You hear all the news, all the weddings, the engagements,
the lawsuits, and other festive matters,
in his aromatic shop. Our former Master Nicholas
has left us suddenly. “Maese Nicolas, quando
barbero, del mismo pueblo.” We miss him very
much. I used to admire his long and learned essay
upon the 'uman 'air. The 'uman 'air, for want of
capillary attraction, could not maintain its place
upon the 'uman 'ead, without the united juices of
one hundred and fifty-five vegetables. So long as
he devoted himself to procuring the necessary vegetables,
and hung his argument upon a hair, he did

[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]

very well. It was pleasant to doze under his glib
fingers and his vegetative philosophy. But unfortunately
he got into politics. Barbers usually have
excitable temperaments. The barber of our village
became the softest of the softs. He was ready to
argue with anybody, and everybody, in his “garden
of spices.”

One day while I was under his tuition, at the
end of a prolonged debate with one of his sitters,
by way of clinching his point, he did me the honor
of tapping me twice upon the cranium with the
back of his hair-brush. “Sir,” said he (tap), “I
tell you that is so” (heavy tap). In consequence,
I predicted his speedy downfall. Sure enough,
he laid a wager that his candidate would have
a majority in our village over all the rest of the
candidates, and the next election only gave his
candidate two votes. Next day our barber was
missing. Public vandalism had crushed him.

We have procured a new barber. He is in the
dyeing line of business. It is the color, not the
quantity of hair, that engages all his lubricating
efforts. To convert the frost of age into a black or
brown scalp is the highest ambition of his genius.
Not only that: he anticipates time, and suggests

[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]

preventive treatment to younger men. To me he
is excessively tiresome.

I have bought me a new dog. A snow-white
terrier, with rose-colored ears and paws. She is as
white as new-plucked cotton, or February clouds.
All our other dogs, Jack, Zack, and Flora, are
black; Juno, by contrast, looks strikingly white.
One day, I found four black dogs under the porch.
Of the four, I should say Juno was the blackest.
She had been to the barber's on a visit, and he had
given her a coat of his confounded Praxitiles balsam.
Now she is growing out of it, but her present
appearance is so repulsive the other dogs will not
associate with her. Some day I mean to give that
barber a talking to about the matter.

Who that loves nature can forsake the country in
October? Before the leaves fall, before “the flying
gold of the woodlands drive through the air,”
we must visit our old friends opposite—the Palisades.
We must bring forth our boat once more,
and “white-ash it” over the blue river to the
“Chimneys.” “What do you think of it, Mrs.
Sparrowgrass?” Mrs. S. replied, she was willing.
So, then, on Saturday, if the weather be fair, we
will make our final call upon them. The weather

[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]

was fair, the air warm, the sky clear, the river
smooth, the boat in order, and over we went. I
had invited a German gentleman, Mr. Sumach, to
accompany us, on account of his flute. He is a
very good performer on that instrument, and music
always sounds to great advantage upon the water.
When we approached the great cliffs, Mr.
Sumach opened his case and took therefrom the
joints of an extraordinarily large flute. Then he
moistened the joints and put it together. Then he
held it up and arranged the embouchure to his
satisfaction, and then he wiped it off with his handkerchief.
Then he held it up again at right angles,
and an impudent boy in another boat, fishing, told
him he'd better take in his boom if he did not want
to jibe. Then Mr. Sumach ran rapidly through a
double octave, executed a staccato passage with
wonderful precision, and wound up with a prolonged
bray of great brilliancy and power. Then
the boy, by way of jibing himself, imitated the
bleating of a sheep. Then I bent the white ash
oars to get out of the reach of the boy, and the
blisters on my hands became painfully bloated.
Then Mr. Sumach, who had been trilling enough
to make anybody nervous, proposed that we should

[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]

sing something. Then Mrs. Sparrowgrass suggested
“Home, Sweet Home.” Then we commenced
(flute obligato.)

HOME, SWEET HOME!

WITH VARIATIONS.

By this time we had reached the base of the
Palisades.

Now then—here we are! A segment of sand
you might cover with a blanket, and all the rest of
the beach a vast wreck of basaltic splinters! Rocks,
rocks, rocks! From bits not larger than a watermelon,
up to fragments the size of the family tea-table.
All these have fallen off those upper cliffs

[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]

you see rising from the gold, brown, and crimson
of autumnal leaves. Look up! No wonder it makes
you dizzy to look up. What is that bird? Mrs.
Sparrowgrass, that is an eagle!

It was a pleasant thing, after we had secured the
boat by an iron grapuel, to pick our way over the
sharp rocks; now holding by a lithe cedar, now
swinging around a jutting crag by a pendulous,
wild grape-vine, anon stepping from block to block,
with a fine river view in front and below; and then
coming suddenly upon the little nook where lay the
flat stone we were in quest of; and then came the
great cloth-spreading, and opening of the basket!
And we took from the basket, first a box of matches,
and a bundle of choice segars of delicate flavor.
Next two side bottles of claret. Then we lifted out
carefully a white napkin, containing only one fowl,
and that not fat. Then two pies, much the worse
for the voyage. Then two more bottles of claret.
Then another centre-piece—ham sandwiches. Then
a bundle of knives and forks, a couple of corkscrews,
a tier of plates, six apples, and a half bottle
of olives. Then twenty-seven hickory nuts, and a
half dozen nut-crackers. And then came tlie
cheese, and the manuscript.

[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]

Oh, golden November sky, and tawny river!
bland distance and rugged foreground! wild, crimson
vines, green cedars, many-colored, deciduous
foliage, grey precipices, and delicious claret!
What an afternoon that was, under the Palisades!

“Mr. Sumach,” said I, after the pippins and
cheese, “if you will cast your eyes up beyond the
trees, above those upper trees, and follow the face
of the precipice in a direct line for some four hundred
feet perpendicularly, you will see a slight jutting
out of rock, perhaps twenty feet below the top
of the crags.” Mr. Sumach replied, the sun was
shining so brilliantly, just then, upon that identical
spot, that he could see nothing at all. As, upon
careful inspection, I could not see the spot myself,
I was obliged to console myself with another sip of
claret. Yet there it was! Just above us!

“Mr. Sumach,” said I, “I wish you could see it,
for it is one of the curiosities of our country. You
know we have five wonders of the world in America—
the Falls of Niagara, the Natural Bridge in
Virginia, the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, Trenton
Falls, and the Palisades. Now, sir, just above
us, almost at the brink of that dizzy height, there
is a singular testimony of the freaks of nature.

[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]

That tough old rock, sir, has had a piece taken out
of it—squarely out, by lightning probably, and the
remnants of the vast mass now lie around us, covered
with lichens, nutshells, dead leaves, tablecloth,
and some claret bottles. If you will go with
me, some two miles north, there is a path up the
mountains, and we can then walk along the top of
the vast precipice to the spot directly over us.”
Mr. Sumach declined, on the ground of not being
accustomed to such rough walking. “Then, sir,
let me describe it to you. From that jutting buttress
of rock in front, to the opening there, just
back of you, there is a flat platform above us, wide
enough for a man to lie down with his head close
to the inner wall and his feet a few inches over the
precipice. That platform is probably one hundred
and fifty feet long; the wall behind it is some
twenty feet high; there is a little ravine, indicated
by the gap up there, by which you can reach the
platform. Once on it, you will see the wall back
of you is very flat and even, as well as the stone floor
you tread upon.” Mr. Sumach answered, “Very
well?” in a tone of inquiry. “Now,” said I, “here
in this paper is the Legend of the Palisades, and as
we are upon legendary ground, I will read it to

[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]

you.” Mr. Sumach, with a despairing look at his
giant flute-case, said he would like much to hear it.
So, after another sip of claret, I unrolled the manuscript
and read

A LEGEND OF THE PALISADES

Long before the white sails of Europe cast their
baleful shadows over the sunny waters of the
western continent, a vast portion of this territory,
bounded by perpetual snows and perpetual summer,
was occupied by two mighty nations of red
men. The Iroquois, by far the most warlike nation,
dominated, with its united tribes, the inland
from Canada to North Carolina, and east and west
from Central Pennsylvania to Michigan; while the
great Algonquin race peopled the sea-board, from
Labrador almost to the Floridas, and extending itself
westward, even to the borders of Oregon, again
stretched away beyond the waters of the Mississippi,
unto the hunting-grounds of the swarthy Appalachians.
This bright river, in those days, flowed downward
to the sea under some dark, Indian name; and
where yonder village glitters with its score of spires
and myriad windows, the smoke of numerous

[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]

campfires curled amidst pointed wigwams, of poles, and
skins, and birch-bark wrought with barbaric characters.

Of the Algonquin tribes, that formerly inhabited
the banks of this mighty stream, tradition has
scarcely preserved a name. A handful of colored,
earthen beads, a few flint arrow-heads, are the sole
memorials of a once great populace. But tradition,
with wonderful tenacity, clings to its legends.
Even from the dross of nameless nations, some golden
deed shines forth, with a lustre antiquity cannot
tarnish. So among the supernatural songs of
the Iroquois we find a living parable.

Long before the coming of the pale-faces, there
was a great warrior of the Onondaga-Iroquois, by
name “The Big Papoose.” He had a round, small,
smooth face, like that of a child, but his arms were
long, and his shoulders broad and powerful as the
branches of an oak. At the council fires he spoke
not, at hunting parties he was indolent, and of the
young squaws none could say, “he loves me.” But
if he spoke not at the council fires, the people knew
the scalps in his wigwam were numerous as the
cones upon the pine tree; and if he cared not for
hunting, yet he wore a triple collar made of the

[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]

claws of three grizzly bears, and the old braves
loved to sing of the great elk he had pursued and
killed with a blow of his stone axe, when his feet
were as the wings of a swallow. True it was, the
love that is so common to man, the love of woman,
was not in his breast; but the brightest and boldest
maiden's eyes dropped in his presence, and many a
time the bosoms of the young squaws would heave—
just a little. Yet the Big Papoose was the friend
of children. Who bound the tiny, flint arrow-heads
to the feathered shafts, and strung the little bow
with the sinews of deer, and practised the boy-warriors
of the tribe in mimic warfare, and taught them
to step with the foot of the sparrow, and to trap the
fox, the rabbit, and the beaver, and to shout the
death-whoop, the sa sa kuan? Who was it, but
the Big Papoose lying yonder, face downward, on
the frozen crust of the lake, his head covered with
skins, and around him a score of boy-warriors, lying
face downward too, watching the fish below,
through the holes in the ice, that they might strike
them with the pointed javelin, the aishkun? Yes,
he was the friend of children, the Big Papoose!

There was then a very old brave of the Onondaga
tribe; his hair was like the foam of the waterfall,

[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]

and his eyes were deep and dark as the pool beneath
it. He was so old that he could lay his hand
upon the head of a hundred years and say—“boy!”

He it was who had found, far in the north, under
the uttermost stars, the sacred pieces of copper; he
it was who had seen the great fish, so large that a
single one could drink up the lake at a mouthful,
and the great Thunder Water he had seen—Niagara!
and the cavern, big enough to contain all the
Indian tribes, the Iroquois and the Algonquins; and
the stone arch that held up the skies, the sun, and
the moon, and the clouds he had stood beneath, and he
had seen it.

He was called The White Cloud, and sometimes
when the summer's heat had been too powerful
upon the earth, and the green leaves of the maize
drooped too much, he would bring forth the magic
red pipe, and smoke, and blow the smoke towards
the west, and then the vapors would rise up from
the great lake Ontario, and approach him, and
overshadow him, and the rain would fall, and the
leaves rise up refreshed, and the little birds would
sing loudly in the wet forest. Then, too, would the
Big Papoose sit on the same log with the White
Cloud, and ask him to tell of the mysteries of the

[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]

skies, and the Sachem would chant of the White
Rabbit of the North, the Queen of the Heavens,
that holds dominion over the uttermost stars, and
the snows of winter; that hides in the summer,
when the sun is powerful, that she may rival his
brightness in the season of frost.

One day the Big Papoose said to the old chief—
“Why, oh White Cloud, do you ever blow the
smoke of the calumet towards the west; is there
not rain too in the east?” Then the white-haired
answered—“Because I like not the visions I see
when I blow the smoke towards the east. As the
smoke from the calumet moves westward, I behold
in it nations of red men, moving, and ever moving,
towards the caverns of the sun. But when I blow
the smoke towards the east, I see the red men no
more, but the glitter of mighty waters, and winged
canoes, in size like the lofty hemlocks of the forest,
and potent arrows of fire, that dart forth with clouds
and thunderings. And further and further towards
the east, I see more of the winged canoes,
in number like the leaves that are blown by the
winds of autumn, and the winged canoes bear
many nations, and in the approaching nations I see
not one red man.” “I have dreamed,” replied the

[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]

young warrior, “of a maiden whose eyes were in
color like yonder lake, and whose skin was beautiful
as the snow at sunset.” “Do you not think of
her often; more than of the women of the Onondagas?”
said the White Cloud. The young warrior
bowed his head. “The time will come,”
said the old chief, “when the woman with blue
eyes will think of the young chief of the Onondagas.”
“When?” said the listener, eagerly. The
White Cloud touched with his finger a young pine,
whose stem was not thicker than a stalk of maize
one moon old, and replied, “When this trunk shall
have grown so a man may stretch his arms around it,
and yet his right hand cannot meet his left, then
will the young chief of the Onondagas live in the
thoughts of the maiden with the skin like the flush
of sunset on the snow.” “You speak truth,” answered
the young chief, “so, too, have I dreamed.”
“Tell me,” continued the white-haired prophet,
“whom do you envy of living men?” “Not one,”
replied the young warrior. “Whom of the dead
do you envy?” “The warriors who are dead in
battle, and yet live famousest in the songs of the
Iroquois.” “Look!” said the prophet. A volume
of smoke arose from the red pipe, and the old man

[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]

blew it gently towards the east. The Iroquois saw
it spread into a plain, variegated with hills and
rivers, and the villages of his tribe. Then it passed
beyond the boundaries of his nation, and he recognized
the habitations of the Algonquins; he saw
their burial-places, and the stretched skins with the
accursed totems of his hereditary enemies; he saw,
too, the noted warriors of their tribes, the women,
the medicine-men, and the children. Then the
cloud rose up over a mountain, and he looked from
its level summit down upon a sparkling river,
broader than the rivers of his own country, and
beyond, on the opposite side, villages of Algonquin
tribes, the wigwams of the Nepperhans. And he
was standing on the brink of gigantic cliffs, whose
vast shadows lay midway across the sparkling
river; and, as he looked, his foot touched a fragment
of rock, and it fell sheer down from the
summit of the precipice to its base, and struck nothing
as it fell. And just beyond him was a shelf
of rock hanging over a terrible shore—huge splinters
of stone below, under his feet, and as his eyes
wandered up and down the sparkling river, far as
his vision reached, the great shadow of the precipices,
and the savage walls of stone, and the

[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]

fragmentary shore went on unending. Then the sparkling
river grew dimmer, and the rocks faded from
view, and he saw only the blue sky, and the clouds,
and high up in the east, an eagle. “My son,” said
the white-haired, “you have seen it. To-morrow
night, loosen the thongs of your moccasins beyond
the wigwams of the Iroquois. In the country of the
Algonquins, are those wondrous precipices, and
before seven days you will see the eastern sun
rising over the sparkling river. Take with you
this bag of pigments and painting implements. On
the bare rocks, above the platform you have seen,
inscribe the totem of your tribe, and the record of
your achievements. Go! I say no more.”

Then the White Cloud put the tube of the calumet
to his lips, and as the smoke arose from the
kinikinic, the bowl of the red pipe expanded wider
and wider, and the blue vapor spread out like the
mist that rises from a lake in a midsummer morning.
Then there came a powerful wind from the
east, and the smoke rolled away before it, and was
driven, with inconceivable swiftness, over the Lake
Ontario, until it grew red under the sinking sun,
and passed to the far off hunting-grounds of the
Dacotahs. The young chief watched until it

[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]

vanished, and then turned to his companion. There
was nothing near him but the green grass and the
slender pine the White Cloud had touched with his
finger.

Then the Big Papoose took the bag of pigments
to his wigwam, and prepared for the journey.
Around his broad chest he drew the folds of a gorgeous
hunting-shirt, decorated with many-hued
barbs of the porcupine, and secured it with a gaudy
belt of wampum. His leggings were fringed with
the hair of scalps, and Indian beads and shells of
various colors, and his moccasins were wrought
with quills, tinted like flowers of the prairie. Then
he took from the notched poles of the wigwam his
tufted bow, and a sheaf of arrows tipped with brilliant
feathers, and he thrust the stone axe through
his belt of wampum, and shook once more the slender
spear-staff, with its ponderous head of pointed
flint. And as he passed on beyond the wigwams
of his tribe, the young squaws gazed after him with
wondrous dark eyes, and the old women said,
“Perhaps he will bring with him, when he returns,
a Chenango woman, or a squaw from the blue Susquehanna.”

Twice the moon rose, and he saw the maize fields

[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]

of the Algonquins. Later and later she glittered
over his solitary path by the rocky gorges of the
Delaware. Then he saw in the north the misty
mountains of Shawangonk, and lodges of hostile
tribes without number, and other maize fields,
and at night the camp-fires of a great people.
Then he came to shallow rivers dotted with canoes,
but the streams were less broad than the river of
the Oswegos. And then he saw before him a
sloping upland, and just as the moon and the dawn
were shining together, he stood under tall trees on
the summit, and beneath him was the platform of
rock, and the waters of the sparkling river.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “I am sorry
to interrupt you, but is not that our boat out there,
going up the river?” “Yes,” added Mr. Sumach,
suddenly leaping up with energy, “and my flute
too, I believe.” “It cannot be,” I replied, “for I
fastened the boat with an iron grapnel,” and, as I
did not like to be interrupted when I was reading,
told Mr. Sumach, very quietly, but severely, he
would find his bassoon just back of our stone table.
The explanation being satisfactory, I was allowed
to proceed with the legend.

[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]

There was a pathway to the platform, as it might
be, a channel for the heavy rains that sometimes
pour from the table-lands of the precipice to the
ravine, and tumble, in a long, feathery torrent over
its rocky breast. It was a narrow passage, with
walls of stone on either side, and ended just a few
feet south of the jutting ledge, so that the young
chief had to leap from the brink of the gorge to
the edge of the platform. Then he looked around,
and behind him rose up the flat surface of thundersplit
rock. Then he walked to the further end of
it, and laid upon the ground his tufted bow and
sheaf of arrows, loosened his belt of wampum, cast
down his terrible stone axe, and leaned his pointed
spear against the vast wall of the terrace. Then he
took from the bag the pigments and the painting
implements, and before mid-day he had sketched
upon the rocky back-ground the vast outlines of
his picture.

It was at the moment when he had completed
the totem of his tribe, when he was nearest the
gorge and furthest from his weapons, that a fawn
darted from the chasm to the plateau, gathered up
its affrighted form at sight of him, and then sprang
sheer over the brink. The next instant an

[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]

Algonquin warrior leaped upon the ledge. A startled
look at the Iroquois—a contemptuous glance at the
pictograph—two panther bounds—and the hereditary
foes were struggling in a death-grapple upon
the eaves of the precipice. Sometimes they leaned
far over the brink, and then unitedly bent back,
like twin pine trees over-blown. Both were unarmed,
for the Algonquin had not suspected an
enemy in a place where the foot of Iroquois had
never trod, and the weapons of his adversary were
distant from them a bow-shot. So, with terrible
strength, and zeal, and skill, each sought to overthrow
the other, until in the struggle they fell, still
clutched together, upon the rocky floor of the battle-ground.
There, with tremendous throes and
throbs of anger, they lay, until the shadows of the
cliffs had stretched far over the bosom of the sparkling
river.

“Let us rise,” said the Algonquin. The warriors
rose to their feet and stood gazing at each other.

There they were upon that terrible brink, within
reach of each other. A touch of the hand would
have precipitated either upon the fragmentary
shore below.

“Let us not perish,” said the Algonquin, “like

[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]

the raccoon and the fox, starving in the death-lock,
but let us die like braves.”

The Iroquois listened.

“Do you go,” continued the Algonquin, “tell
the warriors of my tribe to come, that they may
witness it, and I will leap with you from this ledge
upon the death below.”

The Iroquois smiled.

“Stay,” added the Algonquin, “I am a child.
Do I not know the fate of an Iroquois who would
venture within the camp of my people? Remain
you, until my return, that the history of my deed
may be inscribed with that you have pictured upon
these rocks.”

The Iroquois smiled again, and said, “I.wait.”

The Algonquin bounded from the parapet and
was gone.

Left to himself, the Iroquois collected together his
painting implements, and filled with brilliant colors
the outlines he had sketched upon the wall. Then
he cast his spear far into the sparkling river, and
sent the stone axe circling though the air until it
splashed far out in the stream, and he broke the
tufted bow with his powerful arms, and snapped
his feathered arrows one by one. Then he girded

[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]

on his gorgeous belt of wampum, and waited. Of
whom was he dreaming as he sat beneath the shadow
of the pictograph? Was it not of the blue-eyed
maiden with cheeks like the flush of sunset
on the snow?

The Iroquois waited. Then he heard a murmur,
as of the wind stirring the leaves, then the rush of
rapid footsteps, and, as he started to his feet, the
cliffs above him were thronged with Algonquin warriors.
There was silence for an instant, and then
an hundred bows were bent, an hundred bowstrings
snapped, an hundred arrows converged
through the air and struck him! But as he turned
to hurl defiance at his enemies, a lithe form
bounded upon the parapet—it caught the figure
studded with arrows and tottering upon the brink
in its arms—and screamed into the dying ears—
“I am here, oh, Iroquois!” and then, except the
pietograph, nothing human remained upon the
platform of the Palisades!

When I had finished the legend, Mr. Sumach
startled the echoes with a burst of fluting that defies
description. So I set to work resolutely to pack up
the basket, for I thought such a place as the one

[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]

we were visiting did not require the aid of art to
make it interesting. After the packing was finished,
we started off for the boat, Mr. Sumach tooting
over the rocks in a marvellous manner, until
we came to the place where some climbing was
necessary, and there I had the satisfaction of seeing
the flute dislocated and cased, and then it fell in
the water, when Mr. S. had some trouble to get at
it. When we got to the place of anchorage, we
found the tide had risen and the grapnel under water,
but no boat; so I suppose the other end of the
rope had not been tied to the ring in the bow.
We had a pretty walk, though, to Closter, and hired
another boat. As our boat was brought home next
day it was no great matter; but I wished the person
who found it for us had found also the oars
and the thole pins.

p529-192 CHAPTER XIII.

The Children are sent to School—Old Soldiers—An Invitation, and Cruel Disappointment—
Our Eldest begins to show Symptoms of the Tender Passion—
Poetry—The Melodies of Mother Goose—Little Posterity by the Wayside—A
Casualty—The Drowning of Poor Little Tommy.

[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]

We have sent the children to school. Under
the protecting wing of Mrs. Sparrowgrass, our two
eldest boys passed in safety through the narrow
channel of orthography, and were fairly launched
upon the great ocean of reading before a teacher
was thought of. But when boys get into definitions,
and words more than an inch long, it is time
to put them out, and pay their bills once a quarter.
Our little maid, five years old, must go with them,
too. The boys stipulated that she should go,
although she had never gone beyond E in the
alphabet before. When I came home from the
city in the evening, I found them with their new
carpet-satchels all ready for the morning. There
was quite a hurrah! when I came in, and they
swung their book-knapsacks over each little

[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]

shoulder by a strap, and stepped out with great pride,
when I said, “Well done, my old soldiers.” Next
morning we saw the old soldiers marching up the
garden-path to the gate, and then the little procession
halted; and the boys waved their caps, and
one dear little toad kissed her mitten at us—and
then away they went with such cheerful faces.
Poor old soldiers! what a long, long siege you
have before you!

Thank Heaven for this great privilege, that our
little ones go to school in the country. Not in the
narrow streets of the city; not over the flinty
pavements; not amid the crush of crowds, and the
din of wheels: but out in the sweet woodlands and
meadows; out in the open air, and under the blue
sky—cheered on by the birds of spring and summer,
or braced by the stormy winds of ruder
seasons. Learning a thousand lessons city children
never learn; getting nature by heart—and treasuring
up in their little souls the beautiful stories
written in God's great picture-book.

We have stirring times now when the old soldiers
come home from school in the afternoon. The
whole household is put under martial law until the
old soldiers get their rations. Bless their white

[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]

heads, how hungry they are. Once in a while they
get pudding, by way of a treat. Then what chuckling
and rubbing of little fists, and cheers, as the
three white heads touch each other over the pan.
I think an artist could make a charming picture of
that group of urchins, especially if he painted
them in their school-knapsacks.

Sometimes we get glimpses of their minor world—
its half-fledged ambitions, its puny cares, its hopes
and its disappointments. The first afternoon they
returned from school, open flew every satchel, and
out came a little book. A conduct-book! There
was G. for good boy, and R. for reading, and S.
for spelling, and so on; and opposite every letter a
good mark. From the early records in the conduct-books,
the school-mistress must have had an
elegant time of it for the first few days, with the
old soldiers. Then there came a dark day; and or
that afternoon, from the force of circumstances,
the old soldiers did not seem to care about showing
up. Every little reluctant hand, however, went
into its satchel upon requisition, and out came the
records. It was evident, from a tiny legion of
crosses in the books, that the mistress's duties had
been rather irksome that morning. So the small

[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]

column was ordered to deploy in line of battle,
and, after a short address, dismissed—without pudding.
In consequence, the old soldiers now get
some good marks every day.

We begin to observe the first indications of a
love for society growing up with their new experiences.
It is curious to see the tiny filaments of
friendship putting forth, and winding their fragile
tendrils around their small acquaintances. What
a little world it is—the little world that is allowed
to go into the menagerie at half price! Has it
not its joys and its griefs; its cares and its mortifications;
its aspirations and its despairs? One
day the old soldiers came home in high feather,
with a note. An invitation to a party, “Master
Millet's compliments, and would be happy to see
the Masters, and Miss Sparrowgrass to tea, on
Saturday afternoon.” What a hurrah! there was,
when the note was read; and how the round eyes
glistened with anticipation; and how their cheeks
glowed with the run they had had. Not an inch
of the way from school had they walked, with that
great note! There was much chuckling over their
dinner, too; and we observed the flush never left
their cheeks, even after they were in bed, and had

[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]

been asleep for hours. Then all their best clothes
had to be taken out of the drawer and brushed;
and the best collars laid out; and a small silk
apron, with profuse ribbons, improvised for our
little maid; and a great to-do generally. Next
morning I left them, as I had to go to the city; but
the day was bright and beautiful. At noon, the
sky grew cloudy. At two o'clock, it commenced
raining. At three, it rained steadily. When I
reached home in the evening, they were all in bed
again; and I learned they had been prevented
going to the party on account of the weather.
“They had been dreadfully disappointed,” Mrs.
Sparrowgrass said; so we took a lamp and went
up to have a look at them. There they lay—the
hopeful roses of yesterday, all faded; and one poor
old soldier was sobbing in his sleep.

We begin to think our eldest is nourishing a
secret passion, under his bell-buttons. He has
been seen brushing his hair more than once, lately;
and, not long since, the two youngest came home
from school, crying, without him. Upon investigation,
we found our eldest had gone off with a
school-girl twice his size; and, when he returned,
he said he had only gone home with her, because

[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]

she promised to put some bay-rum on his hair.
He has even had the audacity to ask me to write a
piece of poetry about her, and of course I complied.

[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]

It was quite touching to see how solemnly the
old soldiers listened, when this was being read to
them; and when I came to the lines:—


“I feel as if something had got in my throat,
And was choking against the strap”—
Ivanhoe looked up with questioning eyes, as if he
would have said, “how did you know that?”

It is surprising how soon children—all children—
begin to love poetry. That dear old lady—
Mother Goose! what would childhood be without
her? Let old Mother Goose pack up her satchel
and begone, and a dreary world this would be for
babies! No more “Pat-a-cake baker's man;” no
more “Here sits the Lord Mayor;” no more “This
little pig went to market;” no more “Jack and
Jill,” going up the hill after that unfortunate pail
of water; no more “One, two, buckle my shoe;”
and “Old Mother Hubbard,” who had such an
uncommonly brilliant dog; and “Simple Simon,”
who was not quite so simple as the pieman thought

[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]

he was; and “Jacky Horner,” whose thumb stands
out in childhood's memory like Trajan's legended
pillar; and the royal architecture of “King Boggin;
and the peep into court-life derived from the
wonderful “Song of Sixpence:”—what would that
dear little half-price world do without them?
Sometimes, too, the melodious precepts of that
kind old lady save a host of rigid moral lessons—
“Tell-tale-tit,” and “Cross-patch, draw the latch,”
are better than twenty household sermons. And
then those golden legends: “Bobby Shaftoe went
to sea;” and “Little Miss Muffitt, who sat on a
tuffit;” and the charming moon-story of “Little
Bo Peep with her shadowless sheep;” and the capital
match Jack Sprat made, when he got a wife
“who could eat no lean;” and the wisdom of that
great maxim of Mother Goose:—

“Birds of a feather flock together.”

What could replace these, should the priceless
volume be closed upon childhood for ever?

When we think of the great world, and its elaborate
amusements—its balls, and its concerts; its
theatres and its opera-houses; its costly dinners,
and toilsome grand parties: its clanging pianos,

[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]

and its roaring convival songs; its carved furniture,
splendid diamonds, rouge, and gilding; its
hollow etiquette, and its sickly sentimentalities;
what a poor, miserable show it makes beside little
Posterity, with his toils and pleasures; his satchel,
and scraps of song, sitting by his slender pathway,
and watching with great eyes the dazzling pageant
passing by. Little Pesterity! Sitting in judgment
by the wayside, and only waiting for a few
years to close, before he brings in his solemn verdict.

What delicate perceptions children have, lively
sympathies, quick-eyed penetration. How they
shrink from hypocrisy, let it speak with never so
soft a voice; and open their little chubby arms,
when goodness steps into the room. What a sadfaced
group it was that stood upon our bank, the
day little Tommy was drowned.

There is a smooth sand beach in front of our
house, a small dock, and a boat-house. The railroad
track is laid between the bank and the beach,
so that you can look out of the car-windows and
see the river, and the Palisades, the sloops, the
beach, and the boat-house. One summer afternoon,
as the train flew by the cottage (for the

[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]

station is beyond it a short walk), I observed quite
a concourse of people on one side of the track—on
the dock—and sat down by the water's edge. So
when the cars stopped, I hurried back over the
iron track I had just passed, and on my way met a
man, who told me a little boy was drowned in the
water in front of my house. What a desperate
race Sparrowgrass ran that day, with the image of
each of his children successively drowned, passing
through his mind with the rapidity of lightning
flashes! When I got in the crowd of people, I
saw a poor woman lying lifeless in the arms of two
other women; some were bathing her forehead,
some were chafing her hands, and just then I
heard some one say, “It is his mother, poor thing.”
How cruel it was in me to whisper, “Thank God!”
but could I help it? To rush up the bank, to get
the boat-house key, to throw open the outside
doors, and swing out the davits, was but an
instant's work; and then down went the boat from
the blocks, and a volunteer crew had pushed her
off in a moment. Then they slowly rowed her
down the river, close in shore; for the tide was
falling, and every now and then the iron boat-hook
sank under the water on its errand of mercy.

[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]

Meanwhile we lashed hooks to other poles; and
along the beach, and on the dock, a number of men
were busy with them searching for the body. At last
there was a subdued shout—it came from the river,
a little south of the boat-house—and the men
dropped the poles on the dock, and on the beach,
and ran down that way, and we saw a little white
object glisten in the arms of the boatmen, and
then it was laid tenderly, face downward, on the
grass that grew on the parapet of the railway.
Poor little fellow! He had been bathing on the
beach, and had ventured out beyond his depth in
the river. It was too late to recall that little spirit—
the slender breath had bubbled up through the
water half an hour before. The poor women
wrapped up the tiny white death in a warm shawl;
and one stout fellow took it in his arms, and carried
it softly along the iron road, followed by the concourse
of people.

When I came up on the bank again, I thanked
God, for the group of small, sad faces I found
there—partly for their safety—partly for their
sympathy. And we observed that afternoon, how
quiet and orderly the young ones were; although
the sun went down in splendid clouds, and the

[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]

river was flushed with crimson, and the birds
sang as they were wont to sing, and the dogs
sported across the grass, and all nature seemed to
be unconsciously gay over the melancholy casualty;
yet our little ones were true to themselves, and to
humanity. They had turned over an important
page in life, and were profiting by the lesson.

p529-204 CHAPTER XIV.

Winter once more—Mr. Sparrowgrass feels as if he would like to Chirp a little—
Thomas Fuller, D.D.—The Good Wife—Old Dockweed again—A Barrel of
Cider—News of the Saddle and Bridle—Superior Tactics of the Village Teamster—
Christmas—Great Preparations—Christmas Carols and Masques—A Suggestion
of Mrs. Sparrowgrass.

[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]

“The first flurry of snow,” said I, making a
show of shaking off a few starry flakes from my
hat, “the first sky-signals of winter.” It is a good
thing to have winter in the country. There is
something cheery in the prospect of roaring fires;
and Christmas trees, glittering with tapers—and
golden eggs—and sugar-hearts—and wheels—and
harps of sparry sweets; and pipes and tabors; and
mince pies; and ringing sleigh-bells; and robes of
fur, and reeking horses; and ponds with glassy
floors, alive with, and rattling under the mercurial
heels of skaters. We love to watch the snow shaking
down from the clouds; and to rise up some bright
morning, when its fine woof is folded over the

[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]

backs of mountains, and in the laps of valleys, like
a web; and to pass through the colonnaded woods,
where the gaunt old trees are feathered to the
uttermost twigs; and to drink from the cold springwater,
that trickles over a beard of icicles, and
pours, with a summer sound, in the rusty tin-cup,
that belongs to the old saw-mill in the glen. It is
pleasant to think how soon the birds will be about
us once more, not birds of summer, but snow-birds;
and with what glee those wily freebooters—
crows, will croak forth their gratulations that the
winter has come, and with it the privilege of picking
up an honest livelihood, in spite of Lazarus in
the frozen corn-field, with his hat like a pod of
cotton. All the poets love winter, why should not
everybody?

“I feel as if I would like to chirp a little this
evening, Mrs. SparrowG. What shall we have?
Lamb? Let me read you `Dream Children,' or,
perhaps, Fuller would be newer—old Fuller!
Here he is; the ancient and venerable D.D.
Now, my dear, `The Good Wife.' Mrs.

[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]

Sparrowgrass bridled up, and was all smiles. Then I
read:

“St. Paul to the Colossians (iii. 18), first adviseth
women to submit themselves to their husbands,
and then counselleth men to love their wives.
And sure it was fitting that women should have
their lesson given them, because it was hardest to
be learned, and, therefore, they need have the
more time to con it.”

“H'm!” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “St. Paul!
He was a wise man (ironically). Read on.”

“She keeps house if she have not her husband's
company (that you always have), or leave, for her
patent, to go abroad.”

Mrs. Sparrowgrass wished to know what “patent”
meant, in that sense. “My dear,” said I,
“ `patent' is a writ or privilege, given or granted.”
Then I continued:

“For the house is the woman's centre. It is
written: `The sun ariseth; man goeth forth unto
his work and to his labor until the evening'
(Psalm civ. 22); but it is said of the good woman:
`She riseth while it is yet night' (Prov. xxxi. 15).
For man in the race of his work starts from the
rising of the sun, because his business is without

[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]

doors, and not to be done without the light of
heaven; but the woman hath her work within the
house, and, therefore, can make the sun rise by
lighting of a candle.”

“Was Dr. Fuller married?” quoth Mrs. S.
“Yes, my dear, probably two hundred years
ago.” “H'm!” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass. “She
was a model wife, my dear,” said I. “Who?
Mrs. Fuller!” “No, Monica.” Then I read the
beautiful story from the book, and afterwards took
down old, gilt Boccaccio, and repeated the still
more beautiful story of Griselda—the pearl of the
Decameron. This latter story pleased Mrs. Sparrowgrass
very much; so it grew to be exceedingly
pleasant in-doors, what with the wood fire and the
candles; while the cold, the white snow, and the
moonshiny river, made it harmonious out of the
window; and I was just about saying, I meant to
read all Dickens' Christmas Stories over, and
Thackeray's Rose and the Ring, and Bracebridge
Hall, and the Sketch Book, before the holidays;
when we heard something like wheels cheeping
through the snow outside, and a muffled crumping,
and then a knock at the front-door.

Upon opening the door, whom should we see

[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]

but old Dockweed, in a very short overcoat, with
duck-legs, attached to a shadow of supernatural
proportions, that folded over the side steps of the
porch, and ran out to, and up the trunk of a tree,
with wonderful sharpness of outline. And there
was his swart wagon, with ebony spokes, and a
very spectre of a horse: and high up in the wagon,
a ghastly barrel, with icy hoops, and chime of
silver, and all under the moon—oh! Then we
knew the cider had come from Binghamton!

It is a good thing to have a friend in Broome
County.

Then I told old Dockweed, who had aroused all
the small-fry in their beds, cribs, and cradles, with
his voice, to take his horse and wagon to the back
of the house; and after some heaving and tilting,
we got the barrel down in the snow, and rolled it,
with purple fingers, safely into the cellar. Then
I put my hand in my pocket to pull out the customary
amount, but old Dockweed laid his mitten
upon my elbow, with a familiarity that might be
excusable in a small village, but which was by no
means respectful in a village so extensive as our
village. “Sparrygrass,” said he, “how's yer hos?”
I replied that he seemed to be doing well. “

[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]

Sparrygrass,” continued he, “I got somethin' to tell you
now, that'll please yer; I got your saddle and
bridle, and what's more, I got the fellow that stole
yer hos—all right—up at White Plains, in the
lock-up—and nothin' to do but just to go there and
appear agin him, and send him to Sing-Sing.

“Don't you know,” he continued, “some time
ago I asked you how yer hos was gettin' on, and
you said `purty well?' ” I replied that I remembered
it. “Well, then, I knowed then where your
hos was, but thinks I, if Sparrowgrass is a-goin' to
keep his head shet up about losin' his hos, I can
keep my head shet up about findin' on him. 'Taint
my business, you know. I always think that when
anybody puts confidence into me, that I ought to
put confidence into them, and not without.” This
just distribution of relative duties inspired me
with such a feeling of respect for old Dockweed
and his principles, that if any person had been
just then pushing him into the river I should not
have interfered. “So you knew that he was in the
pound,” said I. “Yes,” he replied, “and knowed
about him bein' stolen afore that. You see one
night my wife says to me, says she, `Is that the
cars a-comin'?' I says `No,' but wasn't sure. You

[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]

see my wife she heard it first, because she sleeps
on the side of the bed that's nighest to the window;
well, we heard it a comin', and by and by it got up
close to our house, and then says my wife, `Did
you ever hear such awful whistling?' Says I, `No,
but I know what it is,' says I; `that is Sparrygrasses
hos.' ” “Why didn't you try to stop him,
then,” said I, “if you knew it was my horse?”
“Well,” replied Dockweed, “how did I know that
you wasn't a-top of him? Well, next morning it
was all out, and the hos was took into custody
and pounded; and so I told the boys not to say
nothing about it until I see you, and then you
see, when I see you, you wouldn't let on, and I
wouldn't let on.” “And pray,” said I, “how did
you find the bridle and saddle, and the thief?”
“Well,” continued the veteran teamster, “you see
I had to carry a bag of potatoes up for a colored
woman; she lives way up t'other side of the
aquaduck, and when I took the bag into the
kitchen, I see a little end of the girt and a buckle
just peeking out under the bed, so I said nothin',
but thinks I, wherever there's a girt there's a
saddle, and what are they doin' with a saddle
when they ain't got no horse? says I; so I told my

[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]

wife, and she told me to tell the squire, and so he
sent up the constable and took the man and the
things, and now he's up at White Plains.”

I immediately thanked old Dockweed for this kind
effort on his part, which would cost me a week's time
at least, waiting upon the court as witness, to say
nothing of expenses of wagon-hire to get there,
and hotel bills when I got there; besides, if there
ever were a case of horse-thieving that merited my
approval, over which I had chuckled in golden
chuckles, and satirically approved and forgiven,
this was one. “Dockweed,” said I, “I feel much
obliged to you for your kind attentions, and as a
public spirited individual—as one to whom the
community owes a debt of gratitude, permit me to
make a slight present in acknowledgment of your
eminent services. This oration being in concord
with the mind of old Dockwood, he took off his
mitten, and held out his hand. “I do not intend,”
said I, “to offer you money, but something more
pleasing to you, something you will watch over,
and guard with tender care; something that will
constantly remind you of yourself as a conservator
of public morals.” Here old Dockweed doffed
his rabbit-skin cap, and dropped into the deepest

[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]

deep of humility. “I intend,” said I, “to present
you with my horse!” I never saw so wild and
withered a look as the old teamster's, when these
awful words broke upon his two credulous ears.
“Well,” he replied, slowly drawing on his mitten,
his eyes still cast down, “well, as to that, I ain't got
stable room just now, and—and it's too much—it's
a lettle too much, to give away yer hos—jist for that—
but (in great perplexity) now—I'll tell you what
I'll do—I won't touch yer hos—it's too much, but
I'll call it square, and take the saddle and bridle!”
With that he hooked on his rabbit-skin cap,
collected his fee for bringing the cider, and put
himself in his wagon without further delay. I
watched the old rogue as he stood up under the
moon, and envied him his ride home. “Well,
my dear,” said I to Mrs. S., after I had told
her the whole story, “I suppose it will be a pleasant
thing to go to White Plains; it will enable me to give
you an account of it, its scenery, its people, its
manners and customs, its population, its geology,
and above all, its court-house. I hope the snow
will hold, so that at least there will be good sleighing.

“After all Christmas is coming—a fig for subpœ
nas! Merry Christmas, and in the country! I wish

[figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]

some of the rare old sports remained of picturesque
ages. We certainly must do something; a boar's
head for instance, and a lemon; snap-dragon, and
some chirping old songs—

“A Christmas tree we must have, and some
masque, or pantomime for the children. Let us
look up some good old carols, for the morning, and
rouse the small world with gun-fire and blare of
bugle. There will be stockings to fill, and we will
get colored candles to light the toy-table before
cock-crow. I wish we could have a yule clog for
the hearth, but the chimney flue is too small; at
all events, we can brew a pitcher of mulled wine,
and stick sprigs of evergreens all around the room.
That will make some show and jollity. Holly,
bay, and mistletoe, so common in the Southern

[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]

States, are not plants of this region, but we can
borrow some ivy leaves and make out as we may.

`Sing holly, go whistle and ivy!”

“Come, we must have old Misrule with his yellow
ruff, and Carol with his robe and flute, and
Mistress Mince Pie, and Mumming, in his mask,
and ancient Wassail, with his brown bowl.


`And we will drink from the barrel, my boys,
A health to the barley mow!
The barrel, half-barrel, firkin, half-firkin, gallon, half-gallon,
quart, pint, half-pint, nipperkin—
And the Brown Bowl!
A health to the barley mow!'
And I mean to read to the young-ones, Robert
Southwell's pretty carol:

“There, now, and if the snow holds, we will
have a snow statue—say Santa Claus, with his arms

[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]

stuck full of toys, and his cold cheeks blown out
with a penny trumpet.

`Santa Claus, goed beilig man.'

“I wish we had suitable music for the day, Mrs.
Sparrowgrass—harps and pipes; but who could
play harp and pipe, if we had them? I think,
tough, we can get a drum.


`A drum, a drum, a sheepskin drum,
Or tabor rubbed with a rousing thumb,
Or a cholicky bagpipe's blowsy hum,
To show my master's †mas's come!'
Anything noisy and cheerful will do. I suppose
it will be necessary to write off some lines to speak
in the masque for Christmas evening; so, Mrs. S.,

[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]

I want you to get the dresses, and everything
ready, and I will do all the rest. Have you any
red ribbons, my dear?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass replied
she had not. “Well, then, we must get
some; and we want a few feathers, and spangles,
and a high-peaked hat or two, and some ruffs
made, and rosettes, and a red petticoat, and a
wimple, and some swords, and red paint, and
trunk hose, doublets, and mantles, and white shoes,
and a velvet cap, and some hoops and bells, and
torches, and masks—

“I think,” said Mrs. S., who was very busy
making a little cap, “it will please the children
quite as well if you buy them a magic lantern, and
put up a white sheet to exhibit it on. It seems to
me this Christmas masque will cost a world of
labor.” “Capital!” said I. “You have a wise
little head of your own, Mrs. S., and when I buy
the lantern, I mean to buy a big one!

p529-217 CHAPTER XV.

An offer for the Horse—Difficulty of Shipping him according to the Terms of Bill
of Lading—Anticipations—Marine Sketch—Mrs. Sparrowgrass buys a Patent
Bedstead—An essay on Mechanical Forces, and Suggestions in regard to a
Bronze Legislature—The New Bedstead is tried and found—“not available.”

[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]

“Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I, during one of
the remarkably bland evenings we have had
lately; “there is, at last, an offer for our horse.”
This good news being received with an incredulous
look, I pulled from my pocket the Louisville
Journal, and read therein as follows:

“The admirers of `Mr. Sparrowgrass' will be pleased to learn,
that he bargained for a horse. After detailing his experiences
with the animal, Mr. Sparrowgrass thus posts him: `Does anybody
want a horse at a low price.” A good, stylish-looking animal,
close-ribbed, good loin, and good stifle, sound legs, with
only the heaves, and the blind staggers, and a slight defect in one
of his eyes?” We can put Mr. S. in the way of a trade. We
know a physician, who feeds his horse well, who pays more for
horsewhips than for provender. He would trade for any animal
that has a thin skin and a good memory.”

[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]

“Well,” said Mrs. Sp., “what of that? What
can you do in relation to the matter? You have not
seen the other horse.” “True,” I replied, “but
that need not prevent me SHIPPING MINE! And
you may depend upon it, if ever I get him on
board ship, and the bill of lading is in my pocket,
no earthly power can make me take him back
again. I shall say to the captain, `My dear sir;
that horse is not accustomed to going, but, if he has
any go in him, he will have to go now.' ” This play
upon words, so entirely original, struck me as
being pretty fair; whereupon, I sat down quite
complacently to read the rest of the paper. “But,”
continued Mrs. Sparrowgrass, smoothing her hair
with both hands, “suppose, after they get him on
board the vessel, they should find out what kind
of a horse he was, and suppose, then, they should
refuse to take him, how could you help it?”
“Why, my dear,” replied I, “if I have a bill of
lading, they must take him. A bill of lading is a
certificate or contract signed by the captain and
owners of the vessel, in which they agree to carry
such and such goods from the port where they
receive them, to the port to which the vessel is
bound. A bill of lading reads something like

[figure description] Page 210.[end figure description]

this: `Shipped in good order, and well-conditioned'”—

“How does it begin?” said Mrs. S., with the
first word in the key of C sharp.

“Shipped in good order, and well-conditioned,”
I responded, but my voice was in the key of F
minor. For here, at the very threshold of my
hope, was a barrier. The terms of the bill of
lading itself would prevent me shipping him.
How could I say he was “in good order and well-conditioned?”

To my mind, there is nothing so common in life
as disappointments. Let any man take his happiest
day, and see if it be not somewhat flecked
and flawed with them. I think the most favored
could count twenty balks to one success in his
past days. The human mind is apt to anticipate
the end before the beginning has begun. Tom
Ailanthus hears he has fallen heir to an estate
worth one hundred thousand dollars, and before he
sleeps, buys a house near Fifth Avenue, furnishes
it, gets married, presents his wife with a splendid
set of diamonds, invests forty thousand as special
partner in some safe concern, makes another
fortune, does the tour of Europe, gets back,

[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]

marries off his daughters, moves into the country,
builds a villa, with lawns, fish-ponds, conservatories,
hot and cold graperies, and circulates around his
domains, the Sir Roger de Coverly of the neighborhood.
But when the estate comes to be settled,
and its value established, Tom Ailanthus, who
before never had kept a dollar long enough in his
company to get thoroughly acquainted with it,
finds himself a poor man, with only fifty thousand.
His anticipations have presented him with fifty
thousand disappointments. So we go:


“The space between the ideal of man's soul
And man's achievement, who hath ever past?
An ocean spreads between us and that goal,
Where anchor ne'er was cast!”
We are born to disappointments as the sparks fly
upward. See, now, how my anticipations were
balked. I had imagined everything when I read
that paragraph. Look upon the picture:

THE HORSE—HIS EXODUS.

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[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]

“Now, Mrs. Sparrowgrass, I had imagined all
of that panorama; and here we are, with the horse
upon our hands, just because bills of lading begin
in the way they do. I believe I shall have to make
him a present to some bone-boiling establishment.”
“That is a cruel thought,” said Mrs. S. “By the
way,” said I, “what do you think of my poetry,
my dear?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass answered she had
not heard any poetry, except now and then a
rhyme, which seemed to come in the prose very
well. “Prose,” said I, “prose? Do you not
know the verse is octameter catalectic, alternating
with lines of a trochee and a half, sometimes
irregulated in order to give scope to my fancy?”
Mrs. Sparrowgrass said it did not strike her in that
way. “Then if it did not strike you it cannot be
poetry. Of course not. Poetry to be poetry must

[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]

strike. If it do not, then it is not poetry, but, Mrs.
Sp. it may be (excuse me) werse.”

I have bought me a new patent bedstead, to
facilitate early rising, called a “wake-up.” It is a
good thing to rise early in the country. Even in
the winter time it is conducive to health to get out
of a warm bed by lamp-light; to shiver into your
drawers and slippers; to wash your face in a basin
of ice-flakes; and to comb out your frigid hair
with an uncompromising comb, before a frosty
looking-glass. The only difficulty about it lies in
the impotence of human will. You will deliberate
about it, and argue the point. You will induge
in specious pretences, and lie still with only the tip
end of your nose outside the blankets; you will
pretend to yourself that you do intend to jump out
in a few minutes; you will tamper with the good
intention, and yet indulge in the delicious luxury.
To all this the “wake-up,” is inflexibly and triumphantly
antagonistic. It is a bedstead with a
clock scientifically inserted in the head-board.
When you go to bed, you wind up the clock, and
point the index-hand to that hour on the dial, at
which you wish to rise in the morning. Then you
place yourself in the hands of the invention, and

[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]

shut your eyes. You are now, as it were, under
the guardianship of King Solomon and Doctor
Benjamin Franklin. There is no need to recall
those beautiful lines of the poet's—


“Early to bed, and early to rise,
Will make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”
Science has forestalled them. The “wake-up” is a
combination of hard wood, hinges, springs, and
clock-work, against sleeping late o' mornings. It
is a bedstead, with all the beautiful vitality of a
flower—it opens with the dawn. If, for instance,
you set the hand against six o'clock, in the morning,
at six, the clock at the bed's head solemnly
strikes a demi-twelve on its sonorous bell. If you
pay no attention to the monitor, or idly, dreamily
endeavor to compass the coherent sequence of
sounds, the invention, within the succeding two
minutes, drops its tail-board, and lets down your
feet upon the floor. While you are pleasantly
defeating this attempt upon your privacy, by
drawing up your legs within the precincts of the
blankets, the virtuous head-board, and the rest of
the bed, suddenly rise up in protest; and the next
moment, if you do not instantly abdicate, you are

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launched upon the floor by a blind elbow that connects
with the crank of an eccentric, that is turned
by a cord, that is wound around a drum, that is
moved by an endless screw, that revolves within
the body of the machinery. So soon as you are
turned out, of course, you waive the balance of the
nap, and proceed to dress.

“Mrs. Sparrowgrass,” said I, contemplatively,
after the grimy machinists had departed, “this
machine is one of the most remarkable evidences
of progress, the ingenuity of man has yet developed.
In this bedstead we see a host of cardinal
virtues made practical by science. To rise early,
one must possess courage, prudence, self-denial,
temperance, and fortitude. The cultivation of
these virtues, necessarily attended with a great
deal of trouble, may now be dispensed with, as this
engine can entirely set aside, and render useless, a
vast amount of moral discipline. I have no doubt,
in a short time we shall see the finest attributes of
the human mind superseded by machinery. Nay,
more, I have very little doubt that, as a preparatory
step in this great progress, we shall have physical
monitors of cast-iron and wheel-work to regulate
the ordinary routine of duty in every family.”

[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]

Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she did not precisely understand
what I meant. “For instance,” said I, in
continuation, “we dine every day; as a general
thing, I mean. Now sometimes we eat too much,
and how easy, how practicable it would be to
regulate our appetites by a banquet-dial. The
subject, having had the superficial area of his
skull, and the cubic capacity of his body worked
out respectively by a licensed craniologist, and by
a licensed coporalogist, gets from each a certificate,
which certificates are duly registered in the county
clerk's office. From the county clerk he receives
a permit, marked, we will say, ten.” “Not ten
pounds, I hope,” said Mrs. S. “No, my dear,”
I replied, “ten would be the average of his
capacity. We will now suppose the chair, in
which the subject is seated at dinner, rests upon a
pendulous platform, over a delicate arrangement
of levers, connected with an upright rod, that runs
through the section of table in front of his plate,
and this rod, we will suppose, is toothed into a
ratchet-wheel, that moves the index of the banquet-dial.
You will see at once, that, as he hangs
balanced in this scale, any absorption of food
would be instantly indicated by the index. All

[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]

then, he is called upon to do, is to watch the dial,
until the hand points to `ten,' and then, stop
eating.” “But,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “suppose
he shouldn't be half through?” “Oh,” said
I, “that would not make any difference. When
the dial says he has had enough, he must quit.”
“But,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “suppose he would
not stop eating?” “Then,” said I, “the proper way
to do would be to inform against him, and have
him brought immediately before a justice of the
peace, and if he did not at once swear that he had
eaten within his limits, fine him, and seize all
the victuals on his premises.” “Oh,” said Mrs. S.,
“you would have a law to regulate it, then?”
“Of course,” said I, “a statute—a statutory provision,
or provisionary act. Then, the principle
once being established, you see how easily and
beautifully we could be regulated by the simplest
motive powers. All the obligations we now owe
to society and to ourselves, could be dispensed
with, or rather transferred to, or vested in, some
superior machine to which we would be accountable
by night and day. Nay, more than that, instead
of sending representatives to legislate for us, how
easy it would be to construct a legislature of bronze

[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]

and wheel-work—an incorruptible legislature. I
would suggest a hydraulic or pneumatic congress,
as being less liable to explode, and more easily
graduated than one propelled by steam simply.
All that would be required of us then would be to
elect a state engineer annually, and he, with the
assistance of a few underlings, could manage the
automata as he pleased.” “I do not see,” replied
Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “how that would be an
improvement upon the present method, from all
I hear.” This unexpected remark of Mrs. S. surprised
me into silence for a moment, but immediately
recovering, I answered that a hydraulic or
pneumatic legislature would at least have this
advantage—it would construct enactments for the
State at, at least, one fifthieth part of the present
expense, and at the same time do the work better
and quicker.

“Now, my dear,” said I, as I wound up the
ponderous machinery with a huge key, “as you
are always an early riser, and as, of course, you
will be up before seven o'clock, I will set the indicator
at that hour, so that you will not be disturbed
by the progress of science. It is getting to
be very cold, my dear, but how beautiful the stars

[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]

are to-night. Look at Orion and the Pleiades!
Intensely lustrous, in the frosty sky.”

The sensations one experiences in lying down
upon a complication of mechanical forces, are
somewhat peculiar, if they are not entirely novel.
I once had the pleasure, for one week, of sleeping
directly over the boiler of a high-pressure Mississippi
steamboat; and, as I knew, in case of a blowup,
I should be the first to hear of it, I composed
my mind as well as I could under the circumstances.
But this reposing upon a bed of statics
and dynamics, with the constant chirping and
crawling of wheel-work at the bed's head, with a
thought now and then of the inexorable iron
elbow below, and an uncertainty as to whether the
clock itself might not be too fast, or to slow,
caused me to be rather reflective and watchful,
than composed and drowsy. Nevertheless, I enjoyed
the lucent stars in their blue depths, and
the midnight moon now tipping the Palisades with
a fringe of silver fire, and was thinking how many
centuries that lovely light had played upon those
rugged ridges of trap and basalt, and so finally
sinking from the reflective to the imaginative, and
from the imaginative to the indistinct, at last

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reached that happy state of half-consciousness,
between half-asleep and asleep, when the clock in
the machine woke up, and suddenly struck eight!
Of course, I knew it was later, but I could not
imagine why it should strike at all, as I presumed
the only time of striking was in the morning, by
way of signal. As Mrs. S. was sound asleep, I
concluded not to say anything to her about it; but
I could not help thinking what an annoyance it
would be if the clock should keep on striking the
hours during the night. In a little while the bedclothes
seemed to droop at the foot of the bed, to
which I did not pay much attention, as I was just
then engaged listening to the drum below, that
seemed to be steadily engaged in winding up its rope,
and preparing for action. Then I felt the upper
part of the patent bedstead rising up, and then I
concluded to jump out, just as the iron elbow began
to utter a cry like unto the cry of a steel katy-did,
and did jump, but was accidentally preceded by
the mattress, one bolster, two pillows, ditto blankets,
a brace of threadbare linen sheets, one coverlid,
the baby, one cradle (over-turned), and Mrs.
Sparrowgrass. To gather up these heterogeneous
materials of comfort required some little time, and,

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in the meanwhile, the bedstead subsided. When
we retired again, and were once more safely protected
from the nipping cold, although pretty well
cooled, I could not help speaking of the perfect
operation of the bedstead in high terms of praise,
although, by some accident, it had fulfilled its
object a little earlier than had been desirable. As
I am very fond of dilating upon a pleasing theme,
the conversation was prolonged until Mrs. Sparrowgrass
got sleepy, and the clock struck nine. Then
we had to turn out again. We had to turn out
every hour during the long watches of the night,
for that wonderful epitome of the age of progress.
When the morning came, we were sleepy enough,
and the next evening we concluded to replace the
“wake-up,” with a common, old-fashioned bedstead.
To be sure, I had made a small mistake
the first night, in not setting the “indicator,” as
well as the index of the dial. But what of that?
Who wants his rest, that precious boon, subjected
to contingencies? When we go to sleep, and say
our prayers, let us wake up according to our
natures, and according to our virtues; some require
more sleep, some less; we are not mere bits
of mechanism after all; who knows what world we

[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]

may chance to wake up in? For my part, I have
determined not to be a humming-top, to be wound
up, and to run down, just like that very interesting
toy, one of the young Sparrowgrassii has just now
left upon my table, minus a string.