Various - Autumn Leaves
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Various >> Autumn Leaves
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Poor, dry, musty flowers! Who would believe you ever danced in the
wind, drank in the evening dews, and spread sweet fragrance on the
air? A touch now breaks your brittle leaves. Your odors are like attic
herbs, or green tea, or mouldy books. Your forms are bent and
flattened into every ugly and distorted shape. Your lovely colors are
faded,--white changed to black, yellow to dirty white, gorgeous
scarlet to brick color, purple to muddy brown. Poor things! Who drew
you from your native woods and brooks, to press you flat, and dry your
moisture up, and paste you down helplessly upon your backs, such
mocking shadows of your former grace and beauty?
Ah! sorrowfully do I confess it! It was I. In my early years I
searched the woods and meadows, scaled rocks, forded bogs, and
scrutinized each shady thicket, with murderous intent. I bore my
drooping victims home, and sacrificed them relentlessly to
science. With my own hand I turned the screw that crushed out all that
was lovely and graceful and delicate about them. How I wearied myself
over that flower-press! How anxiously I watched over the stiff stalks
and shrivelled leaves,--all that was left! How perseveringly I changed
and dried the papers, jammed my fingers between the heavy boards, and
blistered my hands with that obstinate screw! And how cordially I
hated it all! I liked the fun of gathering the flowers, the triumph of
finding new specimens, and the excitement of hazardous scrambles; but
as for the rest it was drudgery, which I went through only from a
stern sense of duty. Now, thanks to the busy little fingers that
passed over these leaves, I have a fund of amusement laid up for me;
for every page has its story, and each mutilated flower is the centre
of a beautiful picture. Here the ludicrous and the pathetic are so
exquisitely blended, that I laugh with a regretful feeling at my
heart, and sigh even when smiles are on my face. The first few pages
are light and joyous, full of a child's warm impulses and ready zeal,
and enlivened here and there by some roguish caprice. That was the
time when, in my simplicity, I loved dandelions and buttercups, and
could see beauty even in the common white-weed of the fields. Ah!
here they are, arranged in whimsical positions,--Clover and Sorrel,
Violets and Blue-eyed Grass, Peppergrass and Dock (O, how hard
that was to press!), Mouse-Ear and Yarrow, Shepherd's Purse,
Buttercups, and full-blown Dandelion, Succory, and Chickweed, and
Gill-run-over-the-ground,--with their homeliest names written in
sprawling characters, all down hill, beneath them. I did not aspire to
botanical names in those days. I thought nothing was unfit for my new
Herbarium. Such was my zeal, that I believe I should have filled it
entirely in a few days, if I had not been counselled to make a
judicious selection. I had a faculty for bringing home plants
impossible to press, and insisting upon making the experiment. I slept
for a week with my bed-post tilted up on a huge book, wherein reposed
a water-lily, obstinately refusing to lie flat. All kinds of woody
plants, too, were my delight, though they invariably came out of the
press as they went in, except that the leaves were in every variety of
unnatural position. I never grew weary, either, of gathering stately
and graceful green ferns, and finding them all "cockled up," as the
phrase went, when I got home. I believe I made some experiments on a
horsechestnut blossom once; but as it is not to be found in my
Herbarium, I am inclined to think they were unsuccessful. How happy
children are with any new possession! I thought there never was any
thing quite equal to my new book. All the girls had them, with neat
marbled covers, and white paper within, and each one was determined to
make hers the best of the whole. When pasting day came, there was an
intense excitement. We all daubed our little fingers to our heart's
content, and our faces too, as to that. I remember perfectly the
sensation of smiling, after the paste stiffened. We spattered our
desks, and pasted the wrong side of the flowers, and stuck the leaves
together, and got every thing a little one-sided, and, in short,
became so worried and heated and vexed, that we did not hunt for any
more flowers for a long time after the first pasting day.
In the mean while my ideas had undergone a change. I had become much
more ambitious. A hew page brings flowers of a higher order, and,
beneath them, besides the common name, appears a sounding botanical
title; ay, still more, the class and order are written in full. Poor
things! How many of your species must have been pulled to pieces by
inexperienced hands, to ascertain the exact number of stamens, and
their relative positions! I feel, now, a tenderness for the shrinking,
delicate wild flowers, that makes me hesitate even to pick them from
their shady retreats; but _then_, such was my ardor for investigation,
the more I loved them, and the more beautiful they seemed, the more
eagerly I tore them to fragments. Let the ingenious student analyze
bits of brass wire, and reduce to its simple elements as much
gunpowder as he pleases, but I raise my voice against this wanton
destruction of rare and beautiful flowers. No chemical process can
ever restore _them_.
As I glance over this new page, I see a merry troop of little girls,
crowding around their kind teacher, trying to restrain their
superabundant spirits, and restless activity, till they may give them
free scope in the woods. Passing up the street, they are joined by
fresh recruits, who come dancing out of the houses, with baskets, and
trowels, and tin boxes, and delightfully mysterious suppers packed
away nicely, to be eaten in the most romantic place that can be
found,--provided there is no danger of snakes, or ivy. Where they are
going I should find it impossible to say, until I have consulted the
new leaf just turned over. Here, side by side, are the wild Columbine
and the cheerful little Bethlehem Star. They grew, I remember, upon
Powder-House Hill, so named from the massive granite building upon its
summit, which we never dared to go near, for fear of an explosion. The
hill was rough, rocky, barren, and in some places quite steep. In the
clefts of the rocks, generally far above our reach, the bright red
columbines stood in groups, drooping their graceful heads. Some of the
rocks were worn to a perfect polish by the feet of daring sliders. It
was a dangerous pastime even to the most experienced. A loss of
balance, a slight deviation from the beaten track, a trip in a hollow,
or a momentary entanglement in your dress,--and you are lost! I
declined joining in the diversion ever after the first attempt, which
was nothing but a headlong plunge from top to bottom. But though I
heroically stood aloof while the girls were enjoying the sport, and
making the air ring with their laughter, I was sure, afterwards, to
come upon the slippery places unintentionally, and take a slide
whether I would or not. I had, I remember, a most unfortunate
propensity for climbing and scrambling, choosing the worst paths, and
daring the others to follow my lead on precarious footholds. It was
unfortunate, because I seldom came forth from these trials unscathed.
I was always tearing my dresses in clambering over fences, or bumping
my head in creeping under. Where others cleared brooks with a light
spring, I landed in the middle. I was sure to pick out spongy, oozy,
slippery grass to stand upon, in marshy land, or was yet more likely
to slump through over shoes in black mud. Banks always caved in
beneath my feet, unexpectedly. Brambles seemed to enter into a
conspiracy to lay violent hands on me, and hidden boughs lay in wait
to trip me up. Moss and bark scaled off the trunks of fallen trees,
bearing me with it when I was least on my guard, or the trunks
themselves, solid enough to all appearance, crushed to powder beneath
my unwary tread. Even the stone walls deserted me. I made use of one
as a bridge, one day, to reach a golden cowslip that grew temptingly
in a swamp; but a treacherous stone rolled off with me, and a perfect
avalanche of huge rocks followed, splashing the muddy water all over
me as I sat, helplessly, buoyed up by the tall grass. I regret to say,
I forgot the cowslip.
THE OSTRICH.
Of the wild and wayward Ostrich, say, have ye never heard?
Of the poor, distracted, lonely, outcast, and wandering bird?
Which is not a bird of heaven, nor yet a beast of earth,
But ever roveth, homeless,--a creature of strange birth.
Wings hath it, but it flies not. And yet within its breast
Are strange and sleepless drivings, so that it may not rest;
Half-formed, half-conscious impulses, with its half-formed pinions
given,
Too strong for rest on earth, too weak to bear to heaven;--
And madly it beats its wings, but vainly, against its side,
For the light wind rusheth through them, mocking them in its pride.
Then, distraught, it hurries onward, the gates of heaven shut,
Flying from what it knows not,--seeking it knows not what.
While in the parching desert, amid the stones and sand,
Its stone-like eggs are lying, here and there, on every hand,
It wanders on, unheeding; and, with funereal gloom,
Trembles in every breeze each torn, dishevelled plume.
And when, with startled terror, it sees its foes around,
It strives to rise above them, but clingeth to the ground.
Then on it madly rusheth, with idly fluttering wings;
The stones in showers behind it convulsively it flings;
Onward, and ever onward,--the fleetest horses tire,--
But its strength grows less and less, their tramping ever nigher.
The poor distracted thing! it feels its lonely birth;
It may not rise to heaven, so it cometh to the earth;
To the earth, as to a mother, since to the earth it must,--
Its head in her bosom nestled, its eye veiled with her dust.
But she will not receive it. From earth and heaven outcast,
The Ostrich dies, as it lived, unfriended to the last.
Of the wild and wayward Ostrich, say, have ye never heard?
Of the poor, distracted, lonely, outcast, and wandering bird?
But not alone it wandereth. My spirit stirs in me,
With a sort of half-fraternal and drawing sympathy;
This lonely, restless spirit, that would rise from the heavy ground
To the sky of light and love that stretcheth all around.
But, with all its restless longings, it too must earth-bound stay,
And, with wings half formed for soaring, here hold its weary way,
Hungering for food of heaven, feeding on dust and stone,
While about it lie unheeded, as it hasteth on alone,
Its deeds of good or evil, a fruitful mystery;
But it presseth on, nor recketh what their event may be.
And when doubt and fear assail it, it may not rise above
To the glorious, peaceful height of fear-outcasting love;
But something draws it downward, breathes of its lower birth,
Prompts it to seek a refuge in the blindness of the earth.
And it hides its head in earthliness; at least it will not see
The blow it cannot ward off; and the foe it may not flee.
But something softly whispers that these wings shall grow to soar--
Heaven grant!--in the cloudless depths of love for evermore.
It whispers that again these blinded eyes shall see;
Heaven grant in their yearning gaze the long-sought home may be!
It whispers each word and act shall to fruition spring;
Heaven grant they may joy to man, and peace to the spirit bring!
Of the wild and wandering Ostrich, say, have ye never heard?
The type of the restless soul of man, the weary, wingless bird.
COWS.
I admire cows in their proper places. They are undoubtedly useful
animals; some may think them handsome and graceful: this is, as yet,
an unsettled question. They certainly figure pretty extensively in all
sketches of rural scenery, and may, therefore, be considered as
picturesque objects; but I think that on canvas they take to
themselves beauties which they do not possess in actual life. I do not
object to see them at a distance, quietly grazing in a meadow by the
brink of a winding stream, and all that sort of thing, provided the
distance is very great, and a strong fence intervenes. For I would
have you know, that I am a delicate young lady of nervous temperament
and keen sensibilities, and have a mortal dread of cows. I am not used
to the customs of country life, which place this animal on a level
with domestic pets, and when my brother asked me to pat the side of
one of these great, coarse brutes, I screamed at the mere idea. For I
should be extremely unwilling to provoke one of them, because I have
been told that, when heated with passion, as these beasts often are,
it sometimes happens that the powder-horns on top of their heads
explode, and spread ruin and desolation around. People here bestow a
vast deal too much consideration on these unpleasant animals, for they
are often seen--that is, those of them that are troubled with weak
eyes--walking along the streets with boards over their faces, as a
protection from the rays of the sun. I don't believe that is the real
reason of the thing, though my brother assures me that it is. I think,
myself, that it is intended as a keen satire upon those young ladies
who wear veils in the streets; but I never will yield my point. I
_will_ wear my veil, so long as I have a complexion worth protecting,
and so long as there are gentlemen worth cutting. The Brighton Bridge
Battery is a delightful promenade on a warm summer's day, it is _so_
shady; but it is closed, I may say, every Wednesday and Thursday, to
accommodate these detestable pets of the public. It seems, as my
brother informs me, that the drovers, from humane considerations, are
in the habit of driving their cattle over to Brighton, (when the
weather is pleasant,) and back again on the next day, in order that
their health may be improved by the sea-air which blows up Charles
River. Now I think that when the cow takes precedence of the lady, and
usurps, to the utter exclusion of the latter, the most delightful
promenade in Cambridge, it is time the city authorities should look to
it; and so I told my brother. He considered for a moment, and then
advised me not to bear it any longer, but to go upon Brighton Bridge,
_in spite_ of the cows, and assert my independence. I followed his
advice, as I always do, and, on one fine afternoon, took advantage of
the pleasant weather to indulge in a solitary walk in that
direction. As I was sauntering along on the wooden sidewalk, gazing at
the noble ships which lay moored by their gaff-topsails to the
abutments of the bridge, and viewing the honest sailors as they
promenaded up and down the string-ladders at the command of their
captains, my fears were aroused by a distant commotion. I hastily
turned and looked over the railing into the street. A whole drove of
infuriated cows, urged on by two fiendish boys and a savage dog, was
rapidly approaching me from the Cambridge side. What should I do? I
was too much fatigued to run, and I had never learned to swim. My
plans were hastily formed. Flinging my red silk visite and sky-blue
parasolette into the water, lest the gay colors should still more
enrage the wild animals, I jumped over the outside railing towards the
river, and hung by one arm over the angry flood during a moment of
speechless agony! On they came, with lightning speed, in a whirlwind
of dust. A rapid succession of earthquakes--bellowings--groans,--and
all was over. I was safe. On inspection of the footmarks, I felt quite
sure that some of them must have approached within ten yards of me,
and only two railings had intervened between me and their fury.
An honest tar from one of the men-of-war employed in unloading coal at
Willard's Wharf took the captain's gig, and made for my parasol and
visite as they floated away, and returned them with the very
unintelligible remark, that I'd "better not clear the wreck next time
unless it blew more of a breeze."
THE HOME-BEACON.
By Elkton wood, where gurgling flood
Impels the foamy mill,
Where quarries loom, in solemn gloom,
A mansion crowns the hill.
A pharos true, light ever new
Streams through its friendly pane,
To guide and greet benighted feet
Which thread the winding lane.
Lofty and lone, that light has shone,
Alike o'er green or snow,
Since first a pair their nest built there,
Two hundred years ago.
Now, as we walk, with pleasant talk
To cheer the dismal way,
That light shall tell of marriage-bell,
Of moon and merry sleigh.
The ancient home to which we come
These scenes revealed one night;
As the beacon true, so old, yet new,
Flung wide its cheery light.
Go back threescore long years, or more:
Old Time the latch shall lift,
And, from his urn, once more return
The home of love and thrift.
A noble sire, with nerves of wire,
Warm heart, and open hand,--
A worthy dame, nor shrewd, nor tame,--
Lead forth the phantom band;
Three girls, three boys, with fun and noise,
Next gather round the hearth;
Reenter, then, dear friends, again
All full of life and mirth.
"My pretty nuns, 't is late! My sons,
Bring out the 'Sliding Car.'
For one fair bride, you all must ride
The snows both fast and far."
First darts away the bridegroom gay,
Nor waits the well-aimed jest:
To shed and stall they follow, all,
To speed their sire's behest.
In full array, the spacious sleigh
Glides through the pillared gate:
Each prancing steed, straining to lead,
Draws no unwilling mate.
Full moon and bright loops up the night
Above the starry sky.
Runner and heel, well shod with steel,
Cut sharply as they fly.
Along they go, o'er sparkling snow,
Shrill bells to song oft ringing;
By oak and birch, to Gladstone church
A bridal party bringing.
On time-worn walls the moonbeam falls,
And silvers o'er the spire,
While diamond-pane and giddy vane
Repeat the heavenly fire.
From lofty tower to maiden's bower,
And wide o'er hill and dell,
Of earthly heaven, to mortals given,
Sweet chimes the marriage-bell.
With open book, and solemn look,
All robed in priestly lawn,
The Rector stands,--but counts the sands,
Right willing to be gone!
(The evening mail and nut-brown ale,
His pipe and rocking-chair,
Are waiting long, while the bridal throng
Still lingers unaware.)
An ancient gloom fills all the room,
And dims the lamps above,
Though wall and aisle in verdure smile,
Through wreath and Christmas grove.
By branching pines and graceful vines,
Slow glides the youthful pair
To the altar green, with brow serene,
And kneel together there.
Soft breathes the vow, responsive now,
In calm but earnest tone.
The wedding-ring, strange, mystic thing!
Fast binds the twain in one.
The solemn word no longer heard,
With chastened steps and slow,
And heart in heart, no more to part,
To "Home, sweet Home," they go.
Fresh now, again, o'er snowy main,
The winged steeds return:
On roughening rock, with shriek and shock,
The flashing runners burn.
O'er cradling drift, secure though swift,--
Now smooth, now rough, the track,--
The furious sleigh devours the way,
As lash and harness crack.
Through furs and wool, the air, so cool,
Is felt or feared no more;
Though gay the steeds with icy beads,
And their flanks are frosted o'er.
A fitful light, scarce yet in sight,
Gleams through the opening wood:
Ah! now they come to their hill-side home,
In merry, merry mood.
Four lovely girls, a string of pearls,
Are found in place of three:
Four daughters fair are gathered there
Around the Christmas-tree.
As roars the fire, their loving sire
A warmer welcome deals;
And, stooping low, on one fair brow
His heart's adoption seals.
A dearer bliss, a mother's kiss,
Awaits the blushing bride:
One look above! then smiles of love
Express her joy and pride.
Once more good cheer removes the tear,
Returns the joyous smile;
Soon laughter, poured around the board,
Rings through the spacious pile.
While dance and song employ them long,
Steals in the cold, gray dawn!
Back to your urn, ye phantoms, turn,
And vanish o'er the lawn.
Stern, though in tears, with Fatal shears,
Time scattered all those pearls!
They fell, unstrung, old graves among;
O'er all the snow-wreath curls!
Yet shines that light from lattice bright,
Wide o'er the grass, or snow;
Still all the room its rays illume,
As when, so long ago,
Its arrowy star recalled the car
Then winding round the wood,
And lime-rock gray threw back the ray
Across the rapid flood.
Though cold each form, their _love_, still warm,
From hearth and lattice glows:
Hearts kind and dear yet linger here,
And bid us to repose.
The skies are dark! No moonbeams mark
Or wall, or traveller's way:
O'er rock and wood thick storm-clouds brood,
And doubts our steps delay.
No beacon-light yet cheers the night:
How gloomy grows the hour!
Ah! there it shines, in lance-like lines,
Sharp through the misty shower.
Shine on, fair star, through storms, afar!
Still bless the nightly way!
Always the same, a vestal flame,
Love shall maintain thy ray.
THE FOURTH OF JULY.
It was the anniversary of our Glorious Fourth. The evil genius who
specially presides over the destinies of unoffending college boys put
it into the heads of five of us to celebrate the day by an excursion
by water to Nahant Beach. The morning was delightful,--the cool summer
air just freshening into a steady and favoring breeze, the sun
tempered in his ferocity by an occasional cloud above us, the sea calm
and pleasant--and all that sort of thing, you know--just what you want
on such occasions,--and we set sail from Braman's, resolved to have "a
jolly good time." I can't describe our passage down. It was altogether
too full of fun to be written on one sheet. Suffice it to say, we
laughed, and sang, and joked, and ate, and drank ('t was when we were
young), and so on, all the way, and in fact I felt rather disappointed
at arriving so soon as we did at our destined port. Here new pleasures
awaited us, in the shape of acquaintances unexpected and unexpecting,
rides on the beach, bowling, and loafing in general,--much too rich to
be described here and now. But there is an end to all sport, and ours
came quite too soon. The shadows had begun to lengthen considerably
before we thought of starting on our return, and certain ominous
indications in the heavens above us warned us, that, as our passage
homewards was not by land, further delay was unadvisable.
Dolefully we set our sail, and made for Boston Harbor. We began to
feel the reaction which always follows a season of extreme joviality,
and our spirits were down. Our chief wit, Tom B----, who had before
kept us in a perpetual roar all the way, sat moody and desponding, and
answered gruffly every question put to him; speaking only when spoken
to, and then in monosyllables rarely used in polite circles. Our
_other_ joker, second only to Tom, the above named, having amused us
during the whole day by long yarns spun out from a varied experience
and a rich imagination, betook himself to slumber, and tried to dream
that he was safe home again. The rest of us performed our duties about
the boat in gloomy silence, looking occasionally with some anxiety at
the clouds gathering slowly over our heads, but keeping our opinions
within our own breasts. I had no apprehension of danger, for nothing
indicated a gale; in fact, the breeze was gradually deserting us. All
that was to be feared was a calm, steady rain, which, visiting us at a
distance of several miles from home, and late at night, promised any
thing but an agreeable conclusion to our day's excursion. At last it
came. First, a heavy drop, then a few more, and then a regular,
straight, old-fashioned pour.
Our sail hung motionless, and we seemed to stand still and take
it. Our companions were soon roused from their abstraction by the very
unpleasant circumstances, and we hastily took counsel together.
"Unship the mast," says Tom, "and over with your oars."
We obeyed our captain sulkily, and soon were moving on again. We
pulled away for an hour or so, drenched with the rain, which seemed to
come down faster than ever, and were about as miserable and down-cast
a pack of wretches as ever lived; for there is nothing like a good
ducking (to use the common expression) to take the life and spirit out
of a man, not to mention the other discomforts that attended our
situation.
Silently we rowed, and not a sound was heard above the plashing of the
rain upon the surface of the sea, and the regular stroke of the oars.
"It's very strange that we don't reach old Point Shirley," says Tom,
who had been on the look out for this landmark during the last
half-hour.
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