May is near its close, and I am still at work in the valley of the Hudson. Spring is indeed come again, and this, for the present year, has been its day of triumph. The moment I awoke, at dawn, this morning, I knew by intuition that it would be so, and I bounded from my couch like a startled deer, impatient for the cool delicious air. Spring is upon the earth once more, and a new life is given me of enjoyment and hope. The year is in its childhood, and my heart clings to it with a sympathy, that I feel must be immortal and divine. What I have done to-day, I cannot tell: I only know that my body has been tremulous with feeling, and my eyes almost blinded with seeing. Every hour has been fraught with a new emotion of delight, and presented to my vision numberless pictures of surpassing beauty. I have held communion with the sky, the mountains, the streams, the woods, and the fields: and these, if you please, shall be themes of my present letter. The sky! It has been of as deep an azure, and as serene, as ever canopied the world. It seemed as if you could look through it, into the illimitable home of the angels—could almost behold the glory which surrounds the Invisible. Three clouds alone have attracted my attention. One was the offspring of the dawn, and encircled by a rim of gold; the next was the daughter of noon, and white as a pearl; and the last, of evening, and robed in deepest crimson. Wayward and coquettish creatures were these clouds! Their chief ambition seemed to be to display their charms to the best advantage, as if conscious of their loveliness; and, at sunset, when the light lay pillowed on the mountains, it was a joyous sight to see them, side by side, like three sweet sisters, as they were, going home. Each one was anxious to favor the world with its own last smile, so that, by their changing places so often, you would have thought they were all unwilling to depart. But they were the ministers of the Sun, and he would not tarry for them; and, while he beckoned them to follow on, the Evening Star took his station in the sky, and bade them depart: and when I looked again, they were gone. Never more, thought I, will those clouds be a source of joy to a human heart. And in this respect, also, they seemed to me to be the emblems of those beautiful but thoughtless maidens, who spend the flower of youth trifling with the affections of all whom they have the power to fascinate. The mountains! In honor of the season which has just clothed them in the richest green, they have displayed every one of their varied and interesting charms. At noon, as I lay under the shadow of a tree, watching them “with a look made of all sweet accord,” my face was freshened by a breeze. It seemed to come from the summit of South Peak, and to be the voice of the Catskills. I listened, and these were the words which echoed through my ear. “Of all the seasons, oh, Spring! thou art the most beloved, and to us, always the most welcome. Joy and gladness ever attend thy coming, for we know that the ‘winter is past, the rains are over and gone, the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.’ And we know, too, that from thy hands flow unnumbered blessings. Thou softenest the earth, that the husbandman may sow his seed, which shall yield him a thousand fold at the harvest. Thou releasest the rivers from their icy fetters, that the wings of commerce may be unfurled once more. Thou givest food to the cattle upon a thousand hills, that they, in their turn, may furnish man with necessary food, and also assist him in his domestic labors. Thou coverest the earth with a garniture of freshest loveliness, that the senses of man may be gratified, and his thoughts directed to Him who hath created all things, and pronounced them good. And, finally, thou art the hope of the year, and thine admonitions, which are of the future, have a tendency to emancipate the thoughts of man from this world, and the troubles which may surround him here, and fix them upon that clime where an everlasting spring abides.” “The voice in my dreaming ear melted away,” and I heard the roaring of the streams as they fretted their way down the rocky steeps. The streams! Such “trumpets” as they have, blown to-day, would, I am afraid, have caused Mr. Wordsworth to exclaim: “The cataracts—make a devilish noise up yonder.” The fact is, “all the earth is gay,” and all the springs among the mountains “giving themselves up to jollity,” the streams are full to overflowing, and rush along with a “vindictive looseness,” because of the burden they have to bear. The falls and cascades, which make such exquisite pictures in the summer months, are now fearful to behold, for, in their anger, every now and then they toss some giant tree into an abyss of foam, which makes one fear the effects of an earthquake. But, after the streams have left the mountains, and are running through the bottom lands, they still seem to be displeased at something, and at every turn they take, delve into the “bowels of the harmless earth,” making it dangerous for the angler to approach too near, but rendering the haunt of the trout more spacious and commodious than before. The streams are about the only things I cannot praise to-day, and I hope it will not rain for a month to come, if this is the way they intend to act whenever we have a number of delightful showers. The woods! A goodly portion of the day have I spent in one of their most secret recesses. I went with Shakspeare under my arm, but could not read, any more than fly, so I stretched myself at full length on a huge log, and kept a sharp look-out for anything that might send me a waking dream. The brotherhood of trees clustered around me, laden with leaves just bursting into full maturity, and possessing that delicate and peculiar green, which lasts but a single day, and never returns. A fitful breeze swept through them, so that ever and anon I fancied a gushing fountain to be near, or that a company of ladies fair were come to visit me, and that I heard the rustle of their silken kirtles. And now my eyes rested on a tree, that was entirely leafless, and almost without a limb. Instead of grass at its foot, was a heap of dry leaves, and not a bush or vine grew anywhere near it, but around its neighbors they grew in great abundance. It seemed branded with a curse, alone, forsaken of its own, and despised by all. Can this, thought I, be an emblem of any human being? Strange that it should be, but it is nevertheless too true. Only one week ago, I saw a poor miserable maniac, bound hand and foot, driven from “home and all its treasures,” and carried to a dark, damp prison-house in a neighboring town. We can be reconciled to the mystery of a poisonous reptile’s existence, but it is very hard to understand for what good purpose a maniac is created. But to return. Another object I noticed, was a little tree about five feet high, completely covered with blossoms of a gaudy hue. At first, I tried to gather something poetical out of this thing, but could not to save my life. It caused me a real hearty laugh as the idea expanded, for it reminded me of a certain maiden lady of my acquaintance, who is old, stunted, very fond of tall men, and always strutting round under a weight of jewelry. But oh, what beautiful flowers did I notice in that shady grove, whose whispering thrilled me with delight! Their names? I cannot tell them to you—they ought to have no names, any more than a cloud or a foam-bell on the river. Some were blue, some white, some purple, and some scarlet. There were little parties of them on every side, and as the wind swayed their delicate stems, I could not but fancy they were living creatures, the personified thoughts perhaps of happy and innocent children. Occasionally, too, I noticed a sort of straggler peeping at me from beside a hillock of moss, or from under the branches of a fallen tree, as if surprised at my temerity in entering its secluded haunt. Birds also were around me in that greenwood sanctuary, singing their hymns of praise to the Father of mercies for the return of spring. The nests of the females being already built, they had nothing to do but be happy, anticipating the time when they themselves should be the “dealers-out of some small blessings” to their own dear helpless broods. As to their mates, they were about as independent, restless and noisy as might be expected, very much as any rational man would be who was the husband of a young and beautiful wife. But the open fields to-day have superabounded with pictures to please and instruct the mind. I know not where to begin to describe them. Shall it be at the very threshold of our farm-house? Well, then, only look at those lilac trees in the garden, actually top-heavy with purple and white flowering pyramids. The old farmer has just cut a number of large branches, and given them to his little daughter to carry to her mother, who will distribute them between the mantel-piece, the table, and the fire-place of the family sitting-room. But what ambrosial odor is that which now salutes the senses? It comes not from the variegated corner of the garden, where the tulip, the violet, the hyacinth, the blue bell, and the lily of the valley are vieing to outstrip each other in their attire; nor, from that clover-covered lawn, besprinkled with buttercups, dandelions, strawberry blossoms, and honeysuckles; but from the orchard, every one of whose trees are completely covered with snow-white blossoms. And from their numberless petals, emanates the murmur of bees, as they are busy extracting stores of honey. Oh, what an abundance of fruit—of apples, cherries, peaches, and pears, do these sweet blossoms promise! But, next week there may be a bitter frost; and this is the lesson which my heart learns. Now that I am in the spring-time of life, my hopes, in number and beauty, are like the blossoms of trees, and I know not but they may even on the morrow be withered by the chilly breath of the grave. But let us loiter farther on. The western slope of this gentle hill is equally divided, and of two different shades of green; one is planted with rye, and the other with wheat. The eastern slope of the hill has lately been loosened by the plough, and is of a sombre color, but to my eye not less pleasing than the green. And this view is enlivened with figures besides—for a farmer and two boys are planting corn, the latter opening the bed with their hoes, and the farmer dropping in the seed (which he carries in a bag slung at his side), and pushing it with his foot. And now, fluttering over their heads is a roguish bob-o-link, scolding about something in their wake, at a respectful distance, and hopping along the ground are a number of robins, and on the nearest fence a meadow-lark and bluebird are “holding on for a bite.” But there is no end to these rural pictures, so I will just take you into this neighboring meadow-pasture, then into the poultry yard at home, and conclude my present epistle. Here we are, then, in the midst of various domestic animals. Yonder, a couple of black colts are chasing each other in play, while their venerable mother (for they are brothers, though not twins) is standing a little way off, watching their antics, and twisting about her ears, as she remembers the happy days of her own colthood. Here are some half dozen hearty cows, lying down and grazing, each one with a “pledge of affection” sporting about her. There are six or eight oxen, eating away as fast as they can, while one, who seems to be a sentinel, occasionally rolls up his eye to see if the farmer is coming to renew his song of “haw! gee! gee! haw!” Under the shadow of that old oak, whose portrait I mean to take to-morrow, is a flock of sheep, with their lambs bounding beside them, as to the “tabor’s sound;” but to me there comes no “thought of grief” at the sight, wherein I must be suffered to disagree with Wordsworth, to whom I have already alluded once or twice, and whose celebrated and most wonderful ode has been echoing in my heart all the day long. Some of the lines in it are appropriate to the day, the charms of which I am attempting to make you feel, and you will oblige me by reading and inwardly digesting, for the hundredth time, as I know it will be, the following fragments of a whole, and yet really complete poems:— “The sunshine is a glorious birth.”
“The winds come to me from the fields of sleep.”
“And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm.”
“Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own.”
“Full soon thy soul shalt have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as fate, and deep almost as life.”
“O joy, that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive.”
“To me, the meanest flower that blows, can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
Strange, that an immortal man, after dwelling upon such poetry, should be willing to go into a poultry yard. But why not? I should rather do this willingly, than be compelled, as I have been, and may be again, to hear a man say, after reading to him Wordsworth’s great Ode—“Why! of what use is such stuff as that? what does it prove? will it furnish a man with bread and butter? will it make the pot boil?” The people of the poultry yard have been in such glee to-day, and contributed so much to the gladness of the day, that I must pay them a passing tribute. In the first place, our old gobbler, with his retinue of turkey wives, has been on the point of bursting with pride ever since sunrise. If the Grand Sultan of Turkey (who must be the father of all turkeys) cuts the same kind of capers in the presence of his hundred ladies, that must be a great country for lean people to “laugh and grow fat.” Our ring-tailed gobbler is a feathered personification of Jack Falstaff, possessing his prominent trait of cowardice to perfection. I flourished a red handkerchief in his face this morning, and, by the way he strutted round and gobbled, you would have thought he was going to devour you. About ten minutes after this, I threw down a handful of corn, which was intended for him. While he was busy picking it up, a certain rooster stept along side and commenced picking too: the intruder, having got in the way of the gobbler, was suddenly pushed aside; whereupon the gentleman with spurs chuckled and “showed fight,” but the gobbler for a moment heeded him not. This the rooster could not bear, so he pounced upon his enemy, and whipt him without mercy, until the coward and fool ran away, with his long train of affectionate wives following behind. The roosters, hens and chickens, which have figured in the yard to-day, would more than number a hundred, and such cackling, crowing, chuckling, and crying as they have made, was anything but a “concord of sweet sounds.” But the creatures have been happy, and it was therefore a pleasure to look at them. A young hen this morning made her first appearance with a large brood of chickens, yellow as gold, and this caused quite a sensation among the feathered husbands generally. The mother, as she rambled about, seemed to say by her pompous air, to her daughterless friends—“ar’nt they beautiful? don’t you wish you had a few?” It was also very funny to see with what looks of astonishment the youthful roosters surveyed these “infant phenomenons.” As to our ducks, and geese, and guinea hens, they have minded their business pretty well—the two former paddling about the creek and mud-puddles, and the latter “between meals” roaming at large through the orchard and garden, altogether the most beautiful and rational of the feathered tribes. A mountaineer, who is to take this letter to the post-office, is waiting for me below, and I must close,—hoping that the country figures I have endeavored to sketch may have a tendency to make you feel a portion of that joy, which has characterized this delightful Spring Day.
|
  |
