The Puddleford Papers Part 22

You've got the fee of this 'ere land--that is, you've got a deed, and got inter possession; that makes a fee. And as to that, the deed don't matter so much; possession out here is jest as good. I never see a sheriff who could get a man off. 'Tain't pop'lar--won't pay--it costs votes--men don't vote for officers who push 'em; possession is _more'n_ nine p'ints of the la' in Puddleford; it's ninety-nine--it's 'most as good as a patent."

"But that would be a resistance of process, if the widow succeeded," said I.

"There won't be nothin' to resist," answered Ike. "_You'll_ never feel the process; it will always be defective--there'll be a flaw in it somewhere.

Settlers on the sile must be protected."

"That," chimed in the Squire, "_is_ la'. That was settled in the const.i.tution. There was blood shed for that."

"But there ain't no use," continued Ike, "in goin' into particulars, and puttin' down every p'int of la'. I can scatter a thousand such cases to the four winds--have done it--can do it agin. Give me Kent and the staterts, and I'll cut my way to daylight in no time."

If there is any one who believes that such an opinion was not given for one dollar, or that hundreds have not been given in the very far West just as absurd, let them inquire further of those persons who have experienced a frontier life. Yet, Mr. Turtle lives and flourishes, gains reputation, and will die as much respected and lamented as any one.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The Wilderness around Puddleford.--The Rivers and the Forests--Suggestions of Old Times.--Footprints of the Jesuits.--Vine-covered Mounds.--Visit to the Forest.--The Early Frost.--The Forest Clock.--The Woodland Harvest.--The Last Flowers.--Nature sowing her Seed.--The Squirrel in the Hickory.--Pigeons, their Ways and their Haunts.--The b.u.t.terflies and the Bullfrog.--Nature and her Sermons.--Her Temple still open, but the High-priest gone.

Puddleford was a mere spot in the wilderness. Its region abounded with patches of improved land, and patches partly improved, and fields of stumps that the pioneer had just pa.s.sed over with his axe. The great sweep of land around it, however, was a wilderness--not a thicket--not a dense ma.s.s of timber, nor a swamp--but a rolling plain of upland prairie, and heavily-wooded flats along the rivers; and it extended no one knew where, and was covered with lakes and rivers that shone, and roared, and babbled, day and night, through the great solitude. The surface of the upland was as smooth and shaven as an English park. No undergrowth obstructed the eye, and the outline of a deer might be discerned two miles distant. Trees upon the distant ground-swells, amid their quivering shadows, appeared to be riding upon waves. In this gigantic park, which overreached degrees of longitude, flowers of every form and hue budded, blossomed, faded, and died, from May until November. The prairies were so many blooming seas; and when the soft south-west stirred up their depths, they shed a gorgeous light, as if they were breathing out rainbow colors.

The rivers that watered this waste were large, and flowed from still deeper solitudes towards the great lakes. The sun, as ancient as they, rose and set upon them now as it did centuries ago. The forests upon their banks sprang up, flourished, waxed old, and died; and still the river ran, and new forests rose upon the ruins of the old, and the glory of the new stood implanted in the grave of the old. The bison, moose, and bear drank from the sources of these rivers, driven upward by the noise of civilization.

But they had an interest to me beyond all this: they were the inlets to Christian missionaries more than a century ago. It was up these streams that the French Jesuit,[C] with his eye aloft, and the cross erect, paddled his solitary canoe among the aborigines. Here he built his camp-fire beneath the stars, and told his rosary in the awful presence of his G.o.d--how awful, indeed, in such a spot, at such a time! We can almost see the venerable man, and hear the dip of his oar; the water-fowl scream, scared, and dive along before him, and the Indian stands upon the bank in his presence, like a monument in wonder.

The footprints of the Jesuits are still found upon the bluffs of these rivers. Mounds, which were thrown by them into square and circular forms, now roofless and silent, and matted all over with vines, still bear witness to their devotion. Yet how little is thought of them now! Because the Jesuits did not till the earth, and sow, and reap, and swell the commerce of the world: but didn't they sow? They sowed the seeds of everlasting life among the simple children of the forest; and _they_ have sown from age to age since, and many an Indian still offers the prayer which was taught his forefathers so long ago.

Such, reader, were the woods around Puddleford, and such the a.s.sociations.

I was in the habit of going down into their depths, and sc.r.a.ping acquaintance with the inhabitants. It was a relief to me. I sometimes even went so far as to set myself up as a sportsman. I made a special visit, just after the first frost, for the purpose of spying out the game. The morning was still and bright, and the dash of a distant rivulet, which I could step across, filled the "long drawn aisles" with its echoes. I had been down often during the summer, but every object looked strangely different now. The first frost had given Nature a shock--a kind of palsy; she looked serene, almost sad. Its inmates had gadded about during the summer in a very reckless way; they looked more sober after the first frost--more thoughtful--more anxious about something.

It was late in September, and yet "the storms of the wild Equinox, with all its wet," had not come. It was due and over-due. Amid the more hardy foliage the first frost had drawn his brush in the most delicate way possible--a mere tinge, and no more--a kind of autumnal hint. There was one limb of an oak just changing, and the balance of the tree stood up as bravely and defiant as ever; the soft maple was completely dipped--it blazed; the aspen trembled and glowed; the hickory was only touched, and still hesitated about her full suit of yellow; while the dog-wood and spice bush had entirely given up the ghost.

It was just after the first frost, so I went down to the banks of the rivulet that had so long been singing its woodland psalm. It came from away off somewhere, and strayed, and dove over precipices, and spread into miniature lakes; but, where I stood, it tumbled through a gorge with green, sloping banks. As I gazed, the sun waxed higher and warmer. Day wore its way up the gorge, and literally struck a sisterhood of frosted sumachs, and they turned blood-red; I thought I saw them shift their summer dress.

Near by, a vine circled a tree, and swung out from its top. I had noticed it many times before during the season. It was then hung with large-mouthed flowers, which opened with the morning. Was it a summer chime of bells that tolled the sunlight into the temple?--the forest clock, that opened and shut the hours? The bells were broken now; the first frost had cracked them. I saw a bird, dressed in blue, run up the vine, and hitch along in a very deliberate way, and peer into this bell and into that, as if he wondered why they did not spread; but this might have been an odd fancy of mine.

The first frost seemed to have pa.s.sed through the tree-tops that rolled over the gorge in a hurry. The prominent points of the foliage were tufted with russet, but its hollows and dells were as green as ever.

The woodland harvest was nigh--the Creator's own harvest, sown and reaped without the aid of man. The pawpaw began to shed its fruit; mandrakes stood up all over the forest, like umbrellas loaded with apples of gold; the wild cuc.u.mber was bending under its own weight; the bark of the hickory and beech nut was broken, and the fruit peeped out; acorns were loosening in their cups; the grape was purple and fragrant, and ready to gush with richness; and away down below me I noticed a crabbed, sour-looking plum tree, holding on to the hill-side with all its energy, and covered with its rosy-cheeked children.

A few flowers yet lingered on the upland, breathing their last. The pink, violet, lupine, and a thousand nameless ones, had shed and buried their seeds long before; but the flaming, cardinal-fringed gentian, the yellow moccasin, and troops of lilies, still crowded the swales and watercourses, braving out the first frost. Insects were singing a melancholy dirge around me; a bee droned past in great haste, with a consequential hum; the year was pa.s.sing and dying, like a vibration over the earth.

The air was filled with winged seeds, sailing away off here and away off there, and going I do not know where. The wild cotton burst its pod, and furred out at a great rate; a large company of thistle balloons rolled up lazily into the sky, and went out of sight (to the stars, probably), directed by some invisible hand to the place of their destination. Birds were picking and carrying cl.u.s.ters of grapes and s'c.o.ke far and wide. How beautifully Nature sows her solemn wastes! The winds and the birds are her husbandmen, and the work goes on with a song.

There was a bustle in a hickory--a black squirrel was flirting about, and making an examination of the crop. He had come early into the harvest-field. He ran up and down the branches, nipped the nuts, jumped upon his haunches, thought a while, chattered to himself, and said--or I thought he said--"Little too soon"--"Little too soon"--"Come again"--"Come again." At a distance, a male partridge, with his tail curved like a fan, and his feathers erect, was bl.u.s.tering and strutting around with great pomp, as consequential as a Broadway fop--a rabbit, crouched in a heap, sat off timidly under an upturned root, eating a pawpaw--a lonely snipe came tetering up the rivulet--a robin lit upon a sc.o.ke-bush, picked a berry or two, whistled, took a kind of last look, and departed; a little bird, as rich as sunset, next startled me with a stream of fire, which he wove through the green foliage, as if he were tying it up with a blazing cord; a sanctimonious crow floated in circles in the air, and screamed very savagely to things below him, like a preacher in a pa.s.sion; and I heard turkeys clucking and calling to each other in every direction.

Suddenly, a flock of pigeons broke the few bars of light that were struggling down, and wheeled to a dry limb, at a respectful distance; they ranged themselves in rows like platoons of soldiers, and bowed forwards and sideways, in a very polite, diplomatic way. A few words pa.s.sed between them--(pigeons don't talk much)--exchanging, no doubt, opinions of me and my whereabouts. By and by, one spread his wings and fluttered to the ground, and began feeding--then another, and another, until the whole flock descended, except three sentinels, who remained posted to watch and guard.

I knew them well. There was a "roost" in a tamarack swamp, some miles distant. Not long before, I had visited their noisy metropolis. It was at the close of day, and its evergreen canopy was half-dipped in light. I recollected what hosts came thronging in, on all sides, roaring like a tempest, and how they piled themselves upon the top of each other upon the boughs like swarming bees--and how all night the trees bent and cracked with the crowded population, who seemed continually treading upon each other's toes, and tumbling each other's beds--and how, when the day dawned, they all dissolved, and winged their way to the plains, and the troubled city was as silent as fallen Babylon.

I like the pigeon. He has a business-way, and a way of minding his own business. He is always doing something. Who ever saw a pigeon trifle or frolic, or put on airs? He is the clipper of the skies' air-line. Eight hundred miles a day, few stoppages, and no bursting of boilers. He is a practical bird--no such dreamy, twilight sort of a thing as the whippoorwill, who is forever complaining about nothing, like a miserable rhymester--whir--whir--whir. "Ah! you are going. Pay my respects to the alligators among the rice swamps of Florida," said I, "when you see them next winter."

The pigeons were started by the bay of hounds. By their voice, the hounds had probably been on the chase during most of the night--(it was a weary voice and almost painful)--and I soon discovered that they were approaching. Soon a drove of deer, led forward by a n.o.ble buck, carrying antlers like tree-branches, came crashing by, leaped the ravine, and were soon followed by their pursuers, and I watched them afar over the plain until they were lost. I knew the dogs. They belonged to Venison Styles. But where was Venison? I could see the old hunter, in my imagination, standing away off on some "run-way," listening to the strife around him, and watching for his victims.

Perhaps you know, and perhaps you _don't_ know, reader, that deer, at certain seasons of the year, have "run-ways"--that they have great _high_ways--thoroughfares that follow mountains, thread mora.s.ses, cross lakes and streams, up and down which they travel. I cannot say who first laid them out. It may be they can tell. If I ever find out, I will let you know.

I was next overhauled by a fleet of white b.u.t.terflies, who came winding down the brook in a very loitering sort of a way. They anch.o.r.ed in front of me, near the water's edge, and amused themselves by opening and shutting their huge sails--huge for b.u.t.terflies. Their wings were all bedropped with gold, and powdered with silver dust. Then another fleet, arrayed in chocolate velvet, came up the stream. They were large and showy. _Their_ chocolate wings were ribbed with lines of blue and green; and a few plain, yellow plebeians followed on after, train-bearers, probably, to their lordly superiors. What brush touched those rich and delicate wings? What alchemist wrought those magical colors? Who put on those gorgeous uniforms?

Were they equipped for the beauty and glory of the world, or their own? For what purpose was this winged mystery sent upon the earth? Just here a large frog, who had been sitting on a stone near the water, wrapped up to his eyes in his green surtout, looking as taciturn and gloomy as the Pope, went down with a "jug-a-ro," and spoiled my reflections.

It was just after the first frost, and the wasps were hard at work, preparing, or repairing their mansions for winter. The mason-wasp, as he is called, was digging up the mud, which he carried to a hollow log, where he lived. He was "plastering up a little." The "paper-wasp" was gathering wild cotton and flax, and manufacturing it, for his palace that hung, half furnished, swinging in a tree like a top. Strange that man should have so long remained without the secret of making paper--when the wasp had made and hung it up high before his eyes, for so many thousand years!

Thus, reader, the great wilderness was alive--and away down the chain of animated being, beyond the reach of the eye or ear, there was life--busy life--all links in a great chain held and electrified by the hand of the Almighty.

What sermons there were all around me--Nature preaching through her works!

What cathedral like this, with its living pillars--its dome of sun, and moon, and stars? Morn swings back its portals with light and song, and evening gently closes them again amid her deepening shadows--and the worship and work goes on like the swell of an anthem; but the great high-priest that worshipped at its altars, and burnt incense to the spirit that pervades this solitude, where is he? Where are his fires now? The temple still stands, and the anthem is still heard, but the worshippers are gone "Lo! the poor Indian."

FOOTNOTES:

[C] Father Hennepin and others.

CHAPTER XIX.

The Old New England Home.--The Sheltered Village.--The Ancient Buildings.--Dormer Windows.--An Old Puritanical Home.--The Old Puritan Church.--The Burying-Ground.--Deacon Smith, his Habits and his Helpers.--Major Simeon Giles, his Mansion and his Ancestry.--Old Doctor Styles.--c.r.a.po Jackson, the s.e.xton.--"Training Days."--Militia Dignitaries.--Major Boles.--Major General Peabody.--Preparations and Achievements.--Demolition of an Apple Cart.--"Shoulder Arms!"--Colonel Asher Peabody.--The Boys, and their World.--My Last Look at my Native Village.

Reader, there are mental pictures in the wilderness, as vivid as any in nature. They are the pictures of the past. They haunt the pioneer by day and by night. They go with him over the fields--sit down with him by the streams--linger around his evening hearth, and rise up in his dreams.

I was born in New England. The village was very old, and had received and discharged generations of men. Some two centuries ago, a troop of iron-sided old pilgrims, full of theology and man's rights, an offshoot of a larger body, with their pastor at their head, founded the place, and gave it tone and direction.

This village is very beautiful now. It stands sheltered between two mountains that cast their morning and evening shadows over it. A long stretch of meadow land lies between, through which a river, fringed with willows, lazily lingers and twists in elbows and half circles. The mountains sometimes look down very grim at the valley, and in places have advanced almost across it. There are a great many profiles detected by the imagination in their outline. Cotton Mather's face has been discovered in one huge rock--and the old fellow's head seems to withstand the storms of nature about as successfully as it did the storms of life. The "Devil's Pulpit"--a group of splintered shafts of Gothic appearance--is near by, and superst.i.tious persons used to think that during every thunder-storm his majesty entered it, arrayed in garments of fire, and gave the Puritan a sound lecture.

There are all kinds of buildings in this village. These buildings mark the age in which they were erected, and are the real monuments of their founders. They are as they were. They have not been marred or profaned by modern notions. Some are very eccentric piles, h.o.a.ry with age, full of angles and sharp corners; and some are painfully plain and severe. They all have a face, a cast of countenance, an expression--they almost talk the English of a hundred and fifty years ago. The row of dormer windows on the roof are to me great eyes that frown down upon the frivolity and thoughtlessness of the present--and those eyes are full of theology and civil rights. They look as though they were watching a Quaker, or reading the Stamp Act. The very souls of their architects are transferred to them.

I never enter one, even in these fearless times, without feeling nervous and sober, half expecting to run afoul of its original proprietor, with some interrogatory about my business, and the wickedness of his descendants.

There used to stand--there is still standing--one of these queer piles upon a bluff overlooking the river. It was built of stone, and is very much moss-grown. It fairly looks daggers at the ambitious little structures that have sprouted up by its side. It is a heap of Puritanical thoughts--visible thoughts--all hardened into wood and rock. There it has stood, frowning and frowning, for a century and a half. It is full of great ma.s.sive timbers and stones, and is as stout as the heart of its founder. A weather-c.o.c.k is attached to one of the chimneys--a sheet-iron angel, lying on his breast, and blowing a trumpet, and the wind shifts him round and round over different parts of the village. This angel has blown away thousands of men; but there he lies, his cheeks puffed, blowing yet, as fresh and healthy as ever.

The internal arrangement of this building is characteristic. A dark, gloomy hall--an enormous fireplace, extending across the whole end of a room--a quaint pair of andirons, which run up very high and prim, and turn back like a hook, with a dog's head growling on each tip. There are strange pictures on the walls, which have been preserved in memory of the past--Moses leading the Children of Israel through the Wilderness--Samson slaying the Lion--David cutting off the head of Goliath--stern shadows of the men who used to study them--not very remarkable works of art, but vivid outlines of the scenes themselves.

This house has been occupied by an ill.u.s.trious line of men, distinguished as divines, lawyers, and reformers; and it seems to glow with the fires they kindled in it--in fact, I believe it is inhabited by them yet. I believe that Parson ----, who lived under its roof for more than half a century, and preached during that time in the church near by, occasionally mounts his low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, round-cornered coat, short breeches, knee-buckles, and heavy shoes, ties on his white neckcloth, and takes his cane, and, in a spiritual way, wanders back to his mansion, sits down again before the capacious fireplace, and meditates an hour or two as he used to do in life. He is one of those who keep the house company and give to it its sober air of determination and defiance.

The old Puritan church stands near by. Time has thrown a mantle of moss over it. When erected, it was shingled from foundation to steeple--and a quaint little pepper-box steeple it was. Square, high, solemn-looking pews may be yet seen inside. The pulpit is perched away up under the eaves, like a swallow's nest. It is reached by a flight of steps almost as long as Jacob's ladder. It is covered with names, inscriptions written by men and women who were dust long ago. It looks like the place where "Old Hundred"

was born, lived, and died--sombre, earnest, immovable.

A burying-ground, ancient as the church, closes in on its three sides, and partly encircles it in its arms. There is preaching there yet. The dust of the living and dead congregations are one:

"Part of the host have crossed the flood, And part are crossing now."