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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

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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,

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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

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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

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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:—

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“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

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