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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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