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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—

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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

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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?”

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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“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

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