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“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

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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.

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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

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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

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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. “

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.,

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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

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