Chapter IV: The Escape (3)

The glade is now quiet and lonely as if human passions had never been unloosed there in the terrific crime of parricide--the consequent remorse merging into madness, and a fiery retributory death. Upon the grassy mound, which the frost has not yet blighted, a beautiful white rabbit has just glided. The lovely creature darts onward, then crouches--now lays his long ears flat upon his shoulders, and now points them forward in the most knowing and cunning manner. He plays there in his white, pure beauty, as if in purposed contrast to the blood-stained and guilty wretch who expired on the same spot in his flaming torture. But the little shape now points his long, rose-tinted ears in our direction, and then he does not disappear as much as melt from our sight like the vanishing of breath from polished steel. We then enter fully into the glade. One of the trees at the border is a magnificent chestnut. I remember it in June, with its rich green leaves hung over with short, braided cords of pale gold. These braided blossoms have yielded fruit most plenteously. How thickly the chestnuts, with their autumn-colored coats and gray caps, are scattered around the tree, whilst the large yellow burrs on the branches, gaping wide open, are displaying their soft velvet inner lining in which the embedded nuts have ripened, and which in their maturity they have deserted.

After changing the position of the little glossy things from the earth to our satchels, we cross the glade, and strike a narrow road that enters the forests in that direction. We pass along, our feet sinking deep in the dead leaves, until we come to an opening where a bridge spans a stream. It is a slight, rude structure, such as the emigrating settler would (and probably did) make in a brief hour to facilitate his passage across. Let us sketch the picture to our imagination for a moment. We will suppose it about an hour to sunset of a summer's day. There is a soft richness amidst the western trees, and the little grassy opening here is dappled with light and shade. The emigrant's wagon is standing near the brink, with its curved canvas top, white as silver, in a slanting beam, and the broad tires of its huge wheels stained green with the wood-plants and vines they have crushed in their passage during the day. The patient oxen, which have drawn the wagon so far, are chewing their cud, with their honest countenances fixed straight forward. Around the wagon is hung a multitude of household articles--pans, pails, kettles, brooms, and what not; and on a heap of beds, bedding, quilts, striped blankets, &c., is the old woman, the daughter, about eighteen, and a perfect swarm of white-headed little ones. The father, and his two stalwort sons, are busy in the forest close at hand. How merrily the echoes ring out at each blow of their axes, and how the earth groans with the shock of the falling trees. The two largest of the woodland giants are cut into logs--the others are also divided into the proper lengths. The logs are placed athwart the stream several feet distant from each other--the rest are laid in close rows athwart, and lo! the bridge. Over the whole scene the warm glow of the setting sun is spread, and a black bear, some little distance in the forest, is thrusting his great flat head out of a hollow tree, overseeing the proceedings with the air of a connoisseur.

The bridge is now old and black, and has decayed and been broken into quite a picturesque object. One of the platform pieces has been fractured in the middle, and the two ends slant upwards, as if to take observations of the sky; and there is a great hole in the very centre of the bridge. Add to this the moss, which has crept over the whole structure, making what remains of the platform a perfect cushion, and hanging in long flakes of emerald, which fairly dip in the water, and the whole object is before you. The stream has a slow, still motion, with eddies, here coiling up into wrinkles like an old man's face, and there dimpling around some stone like the smiling cheek of a young maiden, but in no case suffering its demureness to break into a broad laugh of ripples. In one spot tall bullrushes show their slender shapes and brown wigs; in another there is a collection of waterflags; in another there are tresses of long grass streaming in the light flow of the current, whilst in a nook, formed by the roots of an immense elm on one side, and a projection of the bank on the other, is a thick coat of stagnant green--a perfect meadow for the frogs to hold their mass meetings in, differing from ours, however, from the fact of theirs being composed of all talkers and no listeners.

Let us look at the stream a little, which has here expanded into a broad surface, and view its "goings on." There is a water-spider taking most alarming leaps, as if afraid of wetting his feet; a dragon-fly is darting hither and yon, his long, slender body flashing with green, golden and purple hues; a large dace has just apparently flattened his nose against the dark glass inward, dotting a great and increasing period outward. A bright birch-leaf, "the last of its clan," has just fallen down, and been snapped at most probably by a little spooney of a trout, thinking it a yellow butterfly; and on the bottom, which, directly under our eyes is shallow, are several water-insects crawling along like locomotive spots of shadow and reflected through the tremulous medium into distorted shapes. However, we have lingered here long enough--let us onward.

What on earth is that uproar which is now striking our ear. Such hoarse notes, such rapid flutterings, whizzings, deep rumbling sounds, and such a rustle of dead leaves surely betoken something. We turn an elbow of the road, and a flashing of blue wings, and darting of blue shapes in the air, now circling round, now shooting up, and now down, with a large beech tree for the centre, meet our eyes. The tumult is explained. A colony of wild pigeons is busy amongst the beech-nuts, which the frost has showered upon the earth. The ground for some distance around the tree is perfectly blue with the birds picking, and fighting, and scrambling. It is ludicrous to see them. Here a score or two are busy eating, looking like a collection of big-paunched, blue-coated aldermen at a city feast; there, all are hurrying and jostling, and tumbling over one another like the passengers of a steamboat when the bell rings for dinner. By the side of yonder bush there is a perfect duel transpiring between two pugnacious pigeons dashing out their wings fiercely at each other with angry tones, their beautiful purple necks all swollen, and their red eyes casting devouring looks, whilst two others are very quietly, yet swiftly, as if making the most of their time, causing all the nuts in sight, and which probably induced the quarrel, disappear down their own throats. See! here is a pigeon who has over-estimated his capacity of swallowing, or has encountered a larger nut than usual, for he is exhibiting the most alarming symptoms of choking. He stretches his neck and opens his bill like a cock in the act of crowing, at the same time dancing up and down on his pink legs as if his toes had caught fire. However, he has mastered the nut at last with a vigorous shake of his neck, and bobs industriously again at his feast.

Determining to have some of the brown luscious mast, we make a foray amongst the gorging host, and succeeded in causing a cloud of them to take wing, and in securing a quantity of the spoil.

We then start again on our way, but do not advance far before--b-r-r-r-r-r-h--off bursts a partridge, and shoots down the vista of the road, with the dark sunshine glancing from his mottled back. If little "Spitfire" was here, how he would yelp and dance, and dart backward and forward, and shake his tail, so as to render it doubtful whether it wouldn't fly off in a tangent.

Rattat, tattat, tat--tat--t-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r--there is the great red-headed woodpecker, or woodcock, as he is called by the country people, looking like a miniature man with a crimson turban and sable spear, attacking the bark of yon old oak. He is making a sounding-board of the seamed mail of the venerable monarch, to detect by the startled writhing within the grub snugly ensconced, as it thinks, there, in order to transfix it with his sharp tongue through the hole made by his bill. He ceases his work though as we approach--and now he flies away.

A mile farther, we come to the strawberry-field belonging to Deacon Gravespeech, the outlines of whose dark, low farm-house are etched on the mist which is again slowly spreading over the landscape, for it is now near sunset. Having left the forest, we see the mild red orb, like an immense ruby, just in the act of sinking in the bank of pale blue which now thickens the Western horizon. But what have we here? A splendid butternut tree, with quantities of the oval fruit scattered about amidst the brown leaves, in their coats of golden green. What a rich lustre is upon them, made brighter by the varnish, and how delightful their pungent perfume. Let us crack a few of the strong, deeply-fluted shells. In their tawny nooks nestle the dark, golden-veined meats, which with the most delicious sweetness crumble in the mouth.

Of all the fruits of the Northern forests give me the butternut; and, speaking of fruits puts me in mind of the strawberry field. I was here with a small party one day last June. The field was then scattered thickly over with the bright crimson spotting fruit, and the fingers of all of us were soon dyed deeply with the sweet blood. There is great skill in picking strawberries, let me tell you, reader, although it is a trifle. Go to work systematically, and don't get excited. Gather all as you go, indiscriminately. Don't turn to the right for two splendid berries, and leave the one in front, for it is just as likely, before you gather the two, a cluster, with five ripe tempting fellows, will cause you to forget the others, and in whirling yourself around, and stretching over to seize the latest prize, your feet and limbs not only destroy the first and second, but a whole collection of the blushing beauties hid away in a little hollow of buttercups and dandelions.

Well, "as I was saying," I was here with a small party, and had fine sport picking, but the next day a precept, at the suit of Peter Gravespeech, was served upon Hull and myself, (the two gentlemen of the party,) issued from "Pettifogger's Delight," as the office of Squire Tappit, the justice, was called throughout the village: action, trespass. "For the fun of the thing" we stood trial. The day came, and all the vagabonds of the village,--those whose continual cry is that they "can never get any thing to do," and therefore drive a brisk business at doing nothing,--were in attendance. The justice was a hot-tempered old fellow, somewhat deaf, and,--if his nose was any evidence,--fond of the brandy bottle.

The witness of the trespass, who was a "hired hand" of Deacon Gravespeech, was present, and after the cause had been called in due order, was summoned by the deacon (who appeared in proper person) to the stand. He was generally very irascible, a good deal of a bully, rather stupid, and, on the present occasion, particularly drunk.

"Now, Mr. Hicks," said the deacon, respectfully, (knowing his man,) after he had 'kissed the book,' "now, Mr. Hicks (his name was Joe Hicks, but universally called 'Saucy Joe,') please tell the justice what you know of this transaction."

"Well, squire, I seed 'em!" replied Joe, to this appeal, facing the justice.

"Who?" ejaculated the justice, quickly.

"Who!" answered Joe, "why, who do you spose, but that'ere sour-faced feller, (pointing at Hull,) what looks like a cow swelled on clover, and that 'ere little nimshi, who isn't bigger than my Poll's knitten needle. They was with four female critters."

"Well, what were they about?" asked the deacon.

"What was they about!" (a little angrily,) "you know as well as I do, deacon, for I telled ye all about it at the time."

"Yes, but you must tell the justice."

"Answer, witness!" exclaimed the justice, somewhat sternly.

"Oh! you needn't be flusterfied, Squire Tappit; I knowed ye long afore ye was squire, and drinked with ye, too. For that matter, I stood treat last!"

"That's of no consequence now, Mr. Hicks," interposed the deacon, throwing at the same time a deprecatory glance at the old justice, whose nose was growing redder, and whose eye began to twinkle in incipient wrath.

"Let the gentleman proceed with his interesting developments," said Hull, rising with the most ludicrous gravity, and waving his hand in a solemn and dignified manner.

"Well," said Joe, a little mollified at the word 'gentleman,' "ef I must tell it agin, I must, that's all. They was a picken strawberries like Old Sanko."

"How long do you think they were there, trampling down the grass?" asked the deacon.

"Why, I spose from the time I seed 'em"--here he stopped abruptly, glanced out of the window toward the tavern, spit thirstily, and then looked at the deacon.

"Let the gentleman proceed," again cried Hull, half rising, in mock respect.

"_Pro_ceed!" said the justice, angrily.

"Well, as I was a sayen, from the time I seed 'em---- But I say, deacon, I'm monstrous dry. You're temp'rance I know; but sposen as how you treat me and old Squire Tappit there to some red eye. He won't refuse, no how you can fix it, and as for me, I am so dry I really can't talk."

"Go on with your story, you scoundrel!" shouted the justice, exasperated beyond all bounds, "or I'll commit you to prison."

"Commit me to prison, you old brandy-jug!" yelled Joe, swinging off his ragged coat at a jerk, and throwing it on the floor, "commit _me_, you mahogany-nosed old sarpent!" advancing close to the justice, with both of his great fists ready.

"Let the gentleman proceed," here broke in Hull again, in an agony of laughter.

And, sure enough, the "gentleman" did proceed. Launching out his right fist in the most approved fashion at the nose of the justice, Joe was in an instant the center of a perfect Pandemonium. The constable rushed in to protect the justice, who was shouting continually, "I command the peace;" the bystanders, ready for a fight at any time, followed his example, and, for a few minutes, there was a perfect chaos of arms, legs, and heads, sticking out in every direction.

The first thing Hull and I saw were the heels of the justice flourishing in the air, and the last was Joe going off to jail in the grasp of the constable one way, and the deacon sneaking off another. We never heard afterward of the suit, but "Let the gentleman proceed," was for a long time a by-word amongst us in the village.

After crossing the strawberry field we came to a "cross-road" leading to the turnpike. In a few minutes we arrived at "Cold Spring," where a little streak of water ran through a hollowed log, green with moss, from the fountain a short distance in the forest, and fell into a pebbly basin at the road-side. We here refreshed ourselves with repeated draughts of the sweet, limpid element, and then, resuming our walk, soon found ourselves upon the broad, gray turnpike, with the village upon the summit of the hill, about half a mile in front.

The sun had long since plunged into the slate-colored haze of the West; the thickening landscape looked dull and faded; the mist was glimmering before the darkened forests; the cows were wending homeward, lowing; the woodsmen passed us with axes on their shoulders; and, mounting the hill, we saw here and there, a light sparkling in the village, following the example of the scattered stars that were timidly glancing from the dome of the purpled heavens.

THE LOST PET

BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

When Mary's brother went to sea,
He lingered near the door,
Beside the old, familiar tree,
He ne'er had left before,

And though gay boyhood loves to seek
New regions where to tread,
A pearl-drop glittered on his cheek
As tenderly he said--

"The gentle dove I reared with care,
Sister, I leave to thee,
And let it thy protection share
When I am far at sea."

Whene'er for Willy's loss she grieved,
His darling she caressed,
That from her hand its food received,
Or nestled in her breast;

And sometimes, at the twilight dim,
When blossoms bow to sleep,
She thought it murmuring asked for him
Whose home was on the deep.

And if her mother's smile of joy
Was lost in anxious thought,
As memories of her sailor-boy
Some gathering tempest wrought,

She showed his pet, the cooing dove,
Perched on her sheltering arm,
And felt how innocence and love
Can rising wo disarm.

When summer decked the leafy bowers,
And pranked the russet plain,
She bore his cage where breathing flowers
Inspired a tuneful strain;

And now and then, through open door,
Indulged a wish to roam,
Though soon, the brief excursion o'er,
The wanderer sought its home.

She laughed to see it brush the dew
From bough and budding spray.
And deemed its snow-white plumage grew
More beauteous, day by day.

The rose of June was in its flush,
And 'neath the fragrant shade
Of her own fullest, fairest bush
The favorite's house was staid,

While roving, bird-like, here and there,
Amid her flow'rets dear,
She culled a nosegay, rich and rare,
A mother's heart to cheer.

A shriek! A flutter! Swift as thought
Her startled footstep flew,
But full of horror was the sight
That met her eager view--

Her treasure in a murderer's jaws!
One of that feline race
Whose wily looks and velvet paws
Conceal their purpose base.

And scarce the victim's gushing breast
Heaved with one feeble breath,
Though raised to hers, its glance exprest
Affection even in death.

Oh, stricken child! though future years
May frown with heavier shade,
When woman's lot of love and tears
Is on thy spirit laid--

Yet never can a wilder cry
Thy heart-wrung anguish prove
Than when before thy swimming eye
Expired that wounded dove.

FIEL A LA MUERTE, OR TRUE LOVE'S DEVOTION.

A TALE OF THE TIMES OF LOUIS QUINZE.

BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF "THE ROMAN TRAITOR," "MARMADUKE WYVIL," "CROMWELL," ETC.

(_Concluded from page_ 91.)