A MONTICELLO DAY.
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BY ALFRED B. STREET.
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Monticello is one of the loveliest villages upon which the sun shines. It occupies, in two rows, the aides and summit of a steep hill, surrounded by orchards, grain-fields, and meadows; which in turn are girdled by the unbroken wilderness. The single street is formed by the broad turnpike, with smooth grassy margins that extend like carpets of emerald up to the very porches, from the edges of the highway. Two side-walks fringed with maples, (the most beautiful shade trees in the world) form, with their brown stripes, the only interruption to the smooth green margins above referred to. The street (or highway more properly speaking) is hard and smooth as a sea-beach, over which the wagon-wheel rolls as evenly and swiftly as over the surface of that very important invention of modern times, the Plank road. Indeed it is more like the glide of the rail-car over the T road than any thing else, and the way that a span of Halsey’s horses can whirl a carriage through the street of the village, “is a caution” to lazy folks.
The houses are mostly new and uniformly painted white, and peep out from their rows of maples in the most agreeable and picturesque manner. In fact, so sylvan is the whole appearance of Monticello, buried as it is amongst its leaves, that it looks like some huge bird’s nest in the branches of an enormous tree. It is an isolated place, too, tucked away behind the Shawanyunk Mountain, and although placed upon a hill, is as far removed from the busy world as it well could be. It is true, Hamilton’s red coach crawls daily from Newburgh on the Hudson, through it, carrying the mail with great regularity and despatch, (good conscience,) on its snail-like pace to Lake Erie, but if the line depended only for its continuance upon its passengers, its life would be short indeed. In fact, if Uncle Sam’s “pap” (as Uncle Jack says) were not freely bestowed, it would not really last longer than a chicken with the pip.
Such being the state of things, it may readily be imagined that we villagers have every thing to ourselves, as far as the great world without is concerned, and that we are very little troubled with any affairs except our own. It is true they furnish trouble enough of themselves, but they are generally of such a nature that the detachment of grannies and old maids from the main body of the village which take a most pious and praise-worthy care of the morals of the place, can usually settle them over a long “tea drink” at one or the other of their dwellings.
With these preliminaries I now proceed to endeavor to sketch the gliding of a summer’s day over our beautiful village, albeit my touches may be skill-less, and my colors faint.
Not yet sunrise! What a sweet gray delicate light glimmers in the air, and how fresh and cool the universal hue over every object. The sky is stainless, pure as the thoughts of Innocence, and bright as the dreams of the happy, although it wants the splendor of the risen sun. Faint, faint, as the memory of other days to the aged are those few white stars throbbing in the mid-sky, sinking deeper and deeper in the lustrous heavens. In the east is a wreathed cloud, just above the spot where the sun is expected, and evidently awaiting the period for it to burn under the glance of the orbed God, like the arch-angel nearest to the Throne of the Mighty. The west is dusky with the outlines of the forest upon it misty and undefined, as if the breath of the vanished night was still lingering there. Nothing is there to arrest my gaze; but the east draws my eye toward it with the power of a magnet. The east! solemn and mysterious spot in the wide heavens! how it sways, with its mighty influence, the whole human race.
Upon its brow did the splendid Star of the Nativity blaze out with its sudden glory, upon the astonished eyes of the shepherds upon the hill-side, and there was the group of angels unveiled to the cowering mortals who heard, as they shuddered upon their mother earth, the glad anthem of “Peace on earth—good-will to men,” pealing through the brightened heavens, and echoing even down to the dim, night-clad scene around them.
From the east did the steps of the “wise men” come when they brought their gifts of “frankincense and myrrh” to the hallowed infant in the manger. And even now, as the first level ray streams across the desert, does the wild Arab check the lofty step of his camel, and kneeling toward the east, join in the praise then ascending from a thousand minarets, that “God is great and Mahomet is his Prophet.”
To the east then will I turn, and with no infidel praise in my heart, but with the feeling of pure gratitude to that beneficent Being who has watched my pillow through the “dangers of the past night,” I gaze upon it. Ha! that sudden flash, like the leaping of flame upon the altar! How the wreathed cloud starts into light—how it brightens, how it glows! like the iron in the furnace, how it turns to sudden red! Now o’er its downy surface a crimson flush is spread! now its edges burn with gold, it is a glorious banner now, burning, gleaming, flaring, glaring on the east’s illuminated brow.
What a splendid object! and yet but a few moments ago it was nothing but a wreath of cold gray vapor—a fragment doubtless of that dim blanket which kept the stars from shining the past night. What a splendid object, and yet the tints will soon fade, and it will once more turn to a dim curl of cloud insignificant and hueless. Solomon’s mantle will change to a garment that a beggar would scorn, particularly if the morning shouldbe cold. Garments of cloud may be very romantic, but they would prove deucedly uncomfortable, particularly in winter I fancy, although the sun does turn them into golden, crimson, and jeweled glories.
But the east is kindling brighter and brighter, and at last a spot, directly beneath the cloud, is burning almost like “white heat.” That is the bath of splendor into which the sun will rush when it spurns the mountain top and launches into the heavens. And see the lower edge now burns with a fire that sears the very eyeball, and ha! yes, there comes the sun. Up, up, with slow and stately, and solemn motion as yet, up, up, with seeming accelerated speed; now it launches into its bath of splendor, and in plain Saxon, it is sunrise.
Two broad streams of light roll toward me. One comes flashing directly in front, tipping the summit of “Tonner’s hill,” and placing, quick as thought, bright caps of gold upon the pines and hemlocks of the next ridge this way, thence lighting upon “Brownson’s Hill,” and helmeting the pines and hemlocks of that locality, and thence hitting here and touching there, it bathes with rosy splendor the chimneys of the village, and they straightway, like altars just touched by flame, begin, every mother’s son of them, to smoke. And not your blue, common smoke either, but smoke oflapis lazuli, or whatever other hue is radiant and rich.
The other beam shoots off to the left, and leaving the valley-meadows below Tonner’s, still steeped in their silver down of mist, it glorifies the summits of the next wood, and spreads in a huge ring of golden glow upon the tops of the forests that form the framework of “Pleasant Pond.” One towering pine that plumes a green turban of a hill near the liquid silver of the pond, has caught the splendor upon its apex, and how the glad light there laughs and sparkles and dances. Like the brain of a poet when the pure fire descends upon it, it seems to break out into a glow of inspiration, and hark! borne to the fine and subtle ear of fancy, through the intervening space thus sounds the song of this Memnon of the forest—its sunrise hymn —
Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!Hail to its keen swift arrows! hail to its joy and its gladness!Light rushes up from the east, as from an eternal fountain,And straightway all Nature glows like steel that burns in the furnace!Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its radiant splendor!Hail to the wings of its speed! to its glad and its glorious presence!It comes to the dusky east like a thought of fire to the brain!It comes to the brightening east, like a “bridegroom to his bride!”It comes to the glowing east like liberty to the slave!And Nature laughs out in its splendor, and turns into light in its joy.Sing pæans, sing pæans all Nature! about pæans to God in His glory!He rolls up the sun in His might! He spreadeth the wings of the morning!Arise, oh! man, and come forth! glad morning calls out to arise!Break, break the fetters of slumber! lo! beauty is here to salute thee!Here freshness, here splendor, here beauty! yes, purity, beauty, and health!Health in the soft sweet air, and beauty on earth and in heaven!Wake man from the fetters of sleep! come forth and rejoice in this gladness.Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!It comes like a seraph from heaven! yea, from heaven, and fresh with its glory!And lighting upon the dim Earth, the dim Earth straight bursts into beauty.Hail to the morning, hail! it comes with the speed of its pinionTo turn the dim Earth into splendor, to clothe it in garments of light!Hail to the morning, hail! all hail to its glorious presence!Peal upward, rise upward my song! hail beautiful morning! all hail!
Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!Hail to its keen swift arrows! hail to its joy and its gladness!Light rushes up from the east, as from an eternal fountain,And straightway all Nature glows like steel that burns in the furnace!Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its radiant splendor!Hail to the wings of its speed! to its glad and its glorious presence!It comes to the dusky east like a thought of fire to the brain!It comes to the brightening east, like a “bridegroom to his bride!”It comes to the glowing east like liberty to the slave!And Nature laughs out in its splendor, and turns into light in its joy.Sing pæans, sing pæans all Nature! about pæans to God in His glory!He rolls up the sun in His might! He spreadeth the wings of the morning!Arise, oh! man, and come forth! glad morning calls out to arise!Break, break the fetters of slumber! lo! beauty is here to salute thee!Here freshness, here splendor, here beauty! yes, purity, beauty, and health!Health in the soft sweet air, and beauty on earth and in heaven!Wake man from the fetters of sleep! come forth and rejoice in this gladness.Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!It comes like a seraph from heaven! yea, from heaven, and fresh with its glory!And lighting upon the dim Earth, the dim Earth straight bursts into beauty.Hail to the morning, hail! it comes with the speed of its pinionTo turn the dim Earth into splendor, to clothe it in garments of light!Hail to the morning, hail! all hail to its glorious presence!Peal upward, rise upward my song! hail beautiful morning! all hail!
Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!Hail to its keen swift arrows! hail to its joy and its gladness!Light rushes up from the east, as from an eternal fountain,And straightway all Nature glows like steel that burns in the furnace!Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its radiant splendor!Hail to the wings of its speed! to its glad and its glorious presence!It comes to the dusky east like a thought of fire to the brain!It comes to the brightening east, like a “bridegroom to his bride!”It comes to the glowing east like liberty to the slave!And Nature laughs out in its splendor, and turns into light in its joy.Sing pæans, sing pæans all Nature! about pæans to God in His glory!He rolls up the sun in His might! He spreadeth the wings of the morning!Arise, oh! man, and come forth! glad morning calls out to arise!Break, break the fetters of slumber! lo! beauty is here to salute thee!Here freshness, here splendor, here beauty! yes, purity, beauty, and health!Health in the soft sweet air, and beauty on earth and in heaven!Wake man from the fetters of sleep! come forth and rejoice in this gladness.Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!It comes like a seraph from heaven! yea, from heaven, and fresh with its glory!And lighting upon the dim Earth, the dim Earth straight bursts into beauty.Hail to the morning, hail! it comes with the speed of its pinionTo turn the dim Earth into splendor, to clothe it in garments of light!Hail to the morning, hail! all hail to its glorious presence!Peal upward, rise upward my song! hail beautiful morning! all hail!
Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!Hail to its keen swift arrows! hail to its joy and its gladness!Light rushes up from the east, as from an eternal fountain,And straightway all Nature glows like steel that burns in the furnace!Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its radiant splendor!Hail to the wings of its speed! to its glad and its glorious presence!
Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!
Hail to its keen swift arrows! hail to its joy and its gladness!
Light rushes up from the east, as from an eternal fountain,
And straightway all Nature glows like steel that burns in the furnace!
Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its radiant splendor!
Hail to the wings of its speed! to its glad and its glorious presence!
It comes to the dusky east like a thought of fire to the brain!It comes to the brightening east, like a “bridegroom to his bride!”It comes to the glowing east like liberty to the slave!And Nature laughs out in its splendor, and turns into light in its joy.Sing pæans, sing pæans all Nature! about pæans to God in His glory!He rolls up the sun in His might! He spreadeth the wings of the morning!
It comes to the dusky east like a thought of fire to the brain!
It comes to the brightening east, like a “bridegroom to his bride!”
It comes to the glowing east like liberty to the slave!
And Nature laughs out in its splendor, and turns into light in its joy.
Sing pæans, sing pæans all Nature! about pæans to God in His glory!
He rolls up the sun in His might! He spreadeth the wings of the morning!
Arise, oh! man, and come forth! glad morning calls out to arise!Break, break the fetters of slumber! lo! beauty is here to salute thee!Here freshness, here splendor, here beauty! yes, purity, beauty, and health!Health in the soft sweet air, and beauty on earth and in heaven!Wake man from the fetters of sleep! come forth and rejoice in this gladness.Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!It comes like a seraph from heaven! yea, from heaven, and fresh with its glory!And lighting upon the dim Earth, the dim Earth straight bursts into beauty.Hail to the morning, hail! it comes with the speed of its pinionTo turn the dim Earth into splendor, to clothe it in garments of light!Hail to the morning, hail! all hail to its glorious presence!Peal upward, rise upward my song! hail beautiful morning! all hail!
Arise, oh! man, and come forth! glad morning calls out to arise!
Break, break the fetters of slumber! lo! beauty is here to salute thee!
Here freshness, here splendor, here beauty! yes, purity, beauty, and health!
Health in the soft sweet air, and beauty on earth and in heaven!
Wake man from the fetters of sleep! come forth and rejoice in this gladness.
Hail to the morning, hail! hail to its light and its splendor!
It comes like a seraph from heaven! yea, from heaven, and fresh with its glory!
And lighting upon the dim Earth, the dim Earth straight bursts into beauty.
Hail to the morning, hail! it comes with the speed of its pinion
To turn the dim Earth into splendor, to clothe it in garments of light!
Hail to the morning, hail! all hail to its glorious presence!
Peal upward, rise upward my song! hail beautiful morning! all hail!
And thus endeth the first chapter.
Scene the second, is after breakfast, for the inhabitants of Monticello generally, notwithstanding the invocation of the smitten pine to them, with almost the single exception of myself, don’t trouble themselves about rising until nature is pretty well aired. In other words they are, nearly all, late risers.
This, however, is a sweeping remark, and does not include the various “hired helps” of the village, who are now sallying out of their respective domiciles, milk-pail in hand; and soon at every gate, and in every green lane I hear the whizzing sounds of the milk streaming in slight threads of pearl into the fast mantling pails beneath. Neither does it include poor Hank Jones who, shaking in every limb from the want of his morning dram, is hastening to the nearest bar-room; nor “Loafing Joe” either, who, I believe, never goes to bed, and who is always astir with the earliest bird, and who now, with the seeds of the hay-mow which afforded him his last night’s couch, and his hat all crushed up, giving good evidence that he has used it for a night-cap, is lounging, with his customary slouchinggait, along the maple-sidewalk leading from Hamble’s. But these morning sights and sounds soon vanish—the cows wend their lazy way, lowing, to their respective sweet-scented pastures—the “helps” disappear with their foaming pails—poor lost Hank, after swallowing a draught sufficient to set his stomach in a flame, leaves for home, and even “the Loafer” has turned up the “Stone Store road” toward his little cabin on the hill-side. (He lives on the summit of “Antimony Hill,” the name for the bluff at the left of the road, forming the termination of “Coit’s Ridge.” I have a story to tell about that “Ridge” one of these days.)
The village is buried in quietude, and so, I’ll go to breakfast. Well, breakfast has been dispatched, and I am again at my post, pencil in hand, to note down events as they shall occur. Ah! there comes “Squire Belldong” along the turnpike from his dwelling, after having discussed his first meal of the day. I’ll hasten up and follow him into “Saint’s” store, for I see he is bound there—that is always his first stopping-place. There’ll be some fun now. He is the greatest mischief-maker in the village, pursuing his trade out of pure love for it, for nothing delights himso much as “setting people by the ears,” as he calls it. He is a lawyer, and as he lives by this laudable business, perhaps he should not be blamed. At any rate, living or no living, he follows the business up with the pertinacity of a greyhound after a hare.
“Good morning, Saint! how are you this fine morning!” is his first salutation to the keeper of the store.
“Good morning, Squire! I am very well! How are you and your family!”
“Very well, I thank you! although I didn’t sleep very well last night!”
“Ah! what was the matter?”
“Old John P.’s dog kept up such a confounded barking and yelling, that I couldn’t sleep a wink. However, there was a deuced quick stop put to it about two o’clock as I should judge.”
“How was that?”
“A pistol shot I fancy. I heard the report, and one yell from the dog, and then all was as quiet as could be wished.”
Here Saint John began to pick up his ears. He stopped measuring some calico which he had been busy on, and said —
“The deuce! Who could have shot him?”
“Loafing Joe they say. At least old Wheeler, whom I met at the upper end of the village, told me so.”
“There’s a chance for a suit for you, Squire! John P. will complain, wont he?”
“No doubt of it. Well Joe has got nothing, so he must e’en go to jail!”
“Good riddance for the village. I wish the vagabond was always there.”
“So do I. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Squire.”
Over goes the mischief-maker to Hamble’s across the road.
“Good morning, Hamble!” as he enters the bar-room, where he finds that worthy making his lemons still sourer by looking at them.
“Have you heard the news, Hamble!” elevating his heels on the bar-room table, and deliberately drawing out a cigar. “By the way, Hamble, give me a light.” (He is also the most free and easy fellow in the world.)
“News! no—what news?”
“They say that old Wheeler shot John P.’s dog last night!”
“Theysay!whosays?Theysay means nobody.”
“Well,theysay in this case means your own son-in-law. Saint John just told me so.”
“Where! I don’t believe it!”
“Well, you are very polite, Hamble. (Puffing away at his cigar in the most imperturbable manner possible.) Saint told me so in his own store not a minute ago. (Knocking off the gray ashy tip of his cigar with his little finger.) However, it is a secret. Don’t say to Saint thatItold you, for he’ll be angry with me.”
“Not I. I shant probably think of it again.”
Down goes Belldong, not half satisfied yet, to Claypole’s store.
“Hellow, Claypole! how goes it with you this beautiful summer’s morning? Heigho! I’m so confounded sleepy, I can hardly see.”
“What’s the matter now, Squire?”
“Why I was kept awake nearly all night, last night, by that infernal dog of John P.’s. By the way, have you heard the news?”
“No! what is it?”
“Saint John shot that devilish dog last night.”
“N-o! you don’t say so!”
“Yes, but I do say so, and know so too.” (Very positively, at the same time throwing away the stump of his cigar.)
“Why, who told you so?”
“Hamble—not a minute ago. He’s good authority isn’t he? About his own son-in-law, too?”
“Why, yes—he’s the best kind of authority, considering whom he tells it of.”
“Well it’s true, no doubt of it. However, don’t say I told you that Hamble told me. It might get me into trouble.”
“Of course not. I shant bring your name in. But who would have thought it? However, I am glad of it on the whole. That dog was the perfect horror of the whole village with his yowling and yelling. I declare, on the whole, I’m rejoiced at it. We’ll have some peace nights and stand a chance of sleeping some. I vow to you, the other moonlight night he made such a noise I couldn’t close my eyes. I got up and opened the window, and what should I see (you know it was as bright as day) but that infernal creature, planted on his four legs with his tail as stiff as a mackerel, yowling at the moon, as if he was in the last stages of the hydrophobia. I was so mad that I took one of my old boots, and may I be hanged, if I didn’t hit him slap, right on his head. He had just opened his great mouth for another yowl, but it changed to a yell double quick time, I tell you, and the way he streaked it round the corner was nothing to nobody. Ha! ha! ha! Well, I’m glad he’s dead, any way.”
“He! he! he! so am I. Well, good morning.”
Opposite walks he, straight as a bee-line, to Nate’s store.
“Well, Nate, how are you?”
“Pretty well, how is it with yourself?”
“So as to be stirring, though I’m sleepy as the deuce. Have you heard the news this morning, Nate?”
“News, no! (Nate is as keen after news as after money, and that is saying all that can be said on the subject.) What news? Do tell me, Squire?”
“Well, I mean to tell you. You know John P.’s big dog, don’t you?”
“Yes. I hear him often enough nights to know him. What of it?”
“He’s been shot.”
“Good! First rate. But who shot him?”
“Old cheese, your brother-in-law up at the tavern there.”
“What, Hamble! You don’t say so!”
“But I do say so. And I say further, (but this you mustn’t repeat for the world, Nate, that is, with me as your authority—now you wont, will you?)”
“No, no, no, I tell you. What was you going to say further?”
“Why, I was going to say further, (and of course you wont repeat it as you’ve promised not,) that Claypole told me so.”
“Whew! Who would have believed it? I’m devilish glad of it though, anyhow.”
Down, as fast as his legs (and they are long ones,) can carry him, stalks the mischief-maker to Wiggins’ tavern.
“I say, Wiggins, how goes the morning with you? Had many customers at the bar yet, eh!”
“Well, not a great many, Squire! It’s rather airley yet.”
“So it is. You’ve heard the news this morning, doubtless, Wiggins?”
“News! no. What news, Squire?”
“Why, John P.’s infernal great yowling dog has been shot!”
“Shot—dog—John P. Why, you don’t say so, squire!”
“No.Idon’t say so, but Nate Hemstitch does, and further more he says who shot him.”
“The deucehe does. Who was it?”
“I’ll tell you, if you’ll promise not to bring me in the scrape.”
“I promise of course. Now, who was it?”
“Well, Nate says that Bill Claypole did it.”
“Bill Claypole!Well—who—would—have—supposed it. I’m all struck into a heap!”
“So am I, and I haven’t been struck out of it yet. Ha! ha! ha! Well, I must go to my office. Good morning.”
And away goes Belldong after having, like a great spider, woven a web of mischief all over the blessed village, that isn’t untangled in a month, and will probably be the cause of divers fisticuffings, if not lawsuits.
In the meanwhile, the sun has glided higher and higher on his golden wheel up his steep blue eastern pathway. The day promises to be a real Titian, where a splendid coloring steeps the landscape in a lake of light, where the rich yellows and deep blacks lie side by side in distinct gradations, where the leaves embroider their ghostly counterfeits on the sidewalks, where the sky is glittering in its most cerulean intensity, and the air is so crystal clear that the outlines of the distant hills seem as if traced with a hair-pencil on their azure background. The morning shadows, however, are commencing to shrink back, so that an edging of sunlight stripes the left border of the village street, whilst the street itself is bathed in deep gold, and the white houses opposite sparkle from the breaks in the glossy foliage with the most radiant and beautiful effect.
The country wagons now begin to roll in. Old Taggett appears with his ox-cart creaking like “Deacon Morgan, with his voice like a wagon,” and urging his piebald steeds with a goad as long as Mrs. T.’s tongue (and that is long enough in all conscience).
Deacon Decker is also in the village, having driven from “Decker’s Settlement” since sunrise, with eggs and butter to exchange for goods and groceries at Saint John’s store; and, as I’m alive if here doesn’t come old Deacon Lackstir, urging his fat lazy horses to an unwonted trot, as if on especial and driving business.
He is making his way to Esq. Loop’s, and I’ll enter the precincts of “Pettifogger’s Delight,” to see what constitutes his hurry.
“Good morning, Squire Loop,” says the deacon, drawing in his breath through his mouth all puckered up as if in the act of whistling. “How you do this morning? How is your wife and children? Doing well under Providence, I trust! Well, squire, I’ve come this morning with a little piece of paper to have you sue on’t. I don’t want to be deficient in Christian meekness, but it’s scripter doctrine, you know, ‘to pay what thou owest.’ He! he! he!”
Whilst the old deacon is thus giving evidence of his “Christian meekness,” I take the opportunity to look over the justice’s docket.
Ha! by all that’s laughable, there is a suit to come off to-day.
“Nirum Cogervs.Jacob Kettle”—plea, slander. “For that whereas the said defendant did on divers days and times, to wit, on the 4th day of July,A. D.1847, being then and thereunder the influence of strong drink, and at the instigation of the devil, did, with sticks, staves and stones, to wit, with a sharp instrument commonly called the tongue, say, utter and publish, in the presence and hearing of divers respectable persons of the village, and to their great scandal, that he (meaning the said Nirum) was an infernal thief, and that he (meaning the said defendant) could prove it; and furthermore, that he (meaning the said Nirum) had stole a sheep and hid its ears in a stump,” &c. &c. &c.
Here’s fun enough in prospect for the greatest stoic in the universe. “I will be there! At eleven o’clock—and it is within a few minutes of the time now. So I’ll e’en take a seat.”
In a few minutes Nirum comes stumping over, on his crutches, from his little saddler’s shop opposite, and after him, mimicking his gait in the most ludicrous manner, comes his opponent, the most incorrigible vagabond in the whole village, not excepting “Loafing Joe” himself. Abe Kettle is certainly the very personification of blackguardism. “You are as great a vagabond as Abe Kettle,” is a perfect proverb throughout the place. This will be a rich trial, depend upon it.
By and by the jury (the standing one of the village,) come stringing in, looking very solemn and important. Esquire Loop takes his seat at his desk, “spectacles on nose,” and calls over the case.
“Nirum Coger.”
“Here.” (Propping himself up on his crutches.)
“Abraham Kettle.”
“Here.” (Suddenly overtaken with lameness himself, and limping up to the desk.)
“Gentlemen, are you ready to proceed?”
“Yes, your honor,” squeaked little “Blackberry,” who was counsel for the plaintiff, and popping up from his chair.
“I aint, your honor,” interrupts Abe.
“Why not pray?” asks the justice, looking over his spectacles at him with a magisterial frown.
“I haint got no witness.”
“That’s your own fault, not mine. Constable, call the jury.”
“I’ll make affidavy that it weren’t no lachees on my part, your honor. I hope Mr. Coger wont take no advantage nor nothen.”
“You needn’t set there and lie, Abe Kettle,” says Nirum. “You haint got no witness anyhow, and you knows it.”
“Well, heave ahead!” says Abe, taking his seat at the desk. “All I want is to criss-cross your witnesses, to show that this here suit is a spite suit. All spite and malice, your honor,andnothen else.”
“Constable call the jury,” again commands the justice, blowing his nose with a snort like that of a Pleasant Pond bull-frog.
Hereupon this functionary, (who by the way, was the perfect terror of all the apple-hooking boys in the place, and, next to his dog, the greatest dependence, the owner of the said dog had for the preservation of his orchard,) commenced calling over his jury list, and finding them all “on the spot,” (the magical shilling would always bring about that phenomenon,) the justice began the usual swearing in.
“James Bat, John Slow, Jacob Slush.”
Hereupon three vagabonds showed themselves.
“The evidence you shall give, (here the justice evidently forgot the form of the oath, and began to fumble the leaves of his ‘Justice’s Manual,’ with a sneaking and puzzled look.) Ah! oh! shall give between, what’s his name, plaintiff, and A. B. defendant shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothingbutthe truth. Kiss the book!” snatching up an old song book near him, (the justice is purblind without his spectacles, and they had at that juncture slipped down to the very tip of his nose.) They obeyed, and the rest of the jury were all called and sworn in the same manner.
The first witness called for the plaintiff was a thick-headed Dutchman, who could not manage to speak English, and who looked as if it were beyond his management altogether to keep his eyes open. He testified to the plaintiff and defendant being together in Wiggins’ bar-room on the 4th of July last, and in the course of a quarrel which sprang up between them, that the defendant had said that the plaintiff was a thief—(“And so he is,” ejaculated Abe, at this point of the testimony, which elicited a loud “Silence!” from the justice, and a grin of rage from Nirum)—and that he had ‘stolen a sheep and hid its ears in a stump.’
Nothing could be more clear, but what was that to Abe?
“Are you through, little Blackberry?” asked he of the opposite counsel.
Young Kellogg looked at him indignantly for a moment and then, drawing himself up, said —
“I demand the protection of the court here, from the impertinence of this person.”
“Mr. Kettle, call the counsel by his name, or I shall be obliged to commit you.”
“Why, your honor, I thought his name was Blackberry. Loafer Joe says it is, and besides I never heerd him called by any other name, your honor. He’s always called ‘little Blackberry’ whenever they tell of his hoss runnen away with him last Gineral Trainen!”
“No matter what Loafer Joe says—you must call him by his name,Mr. Kellogg, whenever you speak to him.”
“Well, your honor, all’s the same to Abe. Are you through, Mr. Kellogg?”
“Yes, and I demand judgment; the case is made out.”
“Not as you knows on, little Black—Mr. Kellogg I mean. Jest you wait a bit—jest wait till I criss-cross this here witness a little might. Mr. Slump, (addressing the witness,) who was present when I said that aire?”
“Loafer Joe was, and I was too.”
“Hem—ha—was there any one else?”
“Not as I seed.”
“Very well—put that down your honor. What did I say was the reason I called him by his name?”
“You didn’t call him by his name. You said up and down, he was a thief.”
“Very well!but what was the reason I said he was a thief?”
“Because you said that he’d stole a sheep and hid its ears in a stump!”
“Now, Mr. Slump, be careful—remember your oath; false swearen is a state’s-prison matter—are you sarten I said a sheep! Didn’t I say a calf?”
“Calf!”
“Yes, calf—be careful now—remember state’s-prison!”
The witness began to open his eyes and looked puzzled, and somewhat frightened.
“You see, your honor, he looks skeered. Put that down, that he looks skeered.Answer, Mr. Slump!”
“Calf!”
“Yes, calf!” bawls out Abe, and striking the table with his fist.
“Well, I don’t know but you did. Sheep—calf—calf—sheep—same thing.”
“It may be in Dutch, but it isn’t in English by a long shot, Mr. Slump. Put that down, your honor, this ere intelligent witness doesn’t know the difference between a calf and a sheep. He says, your honor, that I said calf—and didn’t I also sayhisears, availing Nirum’s, instead ofitsears.”
“Well, I don’t know but you did,” gasps out the witness, looking frightened out of his wits.
“Put that down, your honor. I saidhisears instead ofits. I call for a nonsuit.”
“Call for a nonsuit!” ejaculates Kellogg, in a tone of indignant surprise—“on what ground, pray!”
“On three grounds, your honor—First, the declaration says that I called the plaintiff a thief in the hearing of ‘divers respectable persons,’ when the witness testifies that I said it in the presence of Loafer Joe and himself—the first one being the greatest vagabond, and the last the most infarnal fool in the village. That’s the fust ground. The second is, I didn’t say a ‘sheep’ at all, but a ‘calf,’ and that I’m ready to stand up to any day—(here Nirum aimed a blow at him with his crutch.) Oh, you needn’t fight about it, Mr. Coger. It’s true and you know it. Keep yourcrutches for your own carcass, you vagabone you. That’s the second ground. The third ground is that I saidhisears instead ofitsears, and that I’ll stand up to; also, for that very mornen this here limpen saddler was as drunk as an owl, and was a lyen in the woods above the village, with his ears, head and all, in an old rotten stump back of Coit’s Ridge. I know that, your honor, for I pulled him out myself, and all the thanks I got for it was abuse from the vagabone!”
In vain did Coger asseverate his innocence—(the story being, in point of fact, a lie of Abe’s from beginning to end, as Nirum was noted for his temperance all over the village, and was a Methodist class-leader in good standing, in addition). In vain did Kellogg start upon his feet and commence a loud denial of the whole story. The justice struggled not to smile—the constable grinned—the jury followed suit, the audience tittered, and the boys outside set up a yell like an Iroquois war-whoop, of “Hooraw for Abe Kettle!”
As for Abe himself, he looked round him in the most staid and sober manner, and then, after demanding for a second time his nonsuit, as he termed it, took his seat; and the justice, looking dark in the face with his efforts to conceal his laughter, dismissed the suit.
“I want a warrant for the costs, ef they aint paid on the spot,” says Abe. “I’m ready to swear, your honor—”
“Pay him the costs and be hanged to him,” ejaculated Kellogg to his client. “He’s ready to swear to any thing.”
And Nirum, with a sigh takes out his leathern pouch and defrays the costs to the justice. Kellogg then takes his hat and sneaks over to his office. Nirum hobbles to his shop—the justice closes his office door, the boys melt away, and the farce is over.
Twelve o’clock! time for the stage—so I’ll take a look at the hill. Sure enough, there is a pyramid of dust shooting up from its summit, and, in the midst, gleams out the crimson coach like a boiled lobster from the gray mist of its pot.
Down the hill whirls the dust, and soon we’ll see the machine upon the flat. Ah! here it is, spinning along at a great rate. Past Griffin’s black domicile—past the beautiful meadow on the right—past the rich wheat-field on the left—past the smooth lawny hill, with its birchen grove on its top—past Uncle Jack’s—past the “ridge farm road,” and now it is creeping up the hill by Owlet’s blacksmith shop. Ah! here comes the ears of the leaders above the brow of the hill—then the heads tossing up and down with their efforts—then the bodies, reined and strapped—then the wheelers—then the lower side of the slanting seat which forms the driver’s throne—then the driver himself, with his four reins slanting to the horses’ heads—then the whole red coach, creaking and pitching. At last the top of the hill is gained, and, with a loud crack of the driver’s whip, through the village trot the jaded steeds. The coach looks like a bobbed rooster with his tail down, for the dusty boot protrudes immensely at the rear, and all the weight appears to be on the hind seat. Up rolls the coach, the driver making his whip crack like Fanny Ellsler’scastanets in the “cracovienne,” and with a prodigious attempt at creating a sensation—the machine stops at Hamble’s. Here the passengers, in the shape of a fat old lady, a lean old gentleman, and a cross baby between them, empty themselves on Hamble’s porch, and the driver, with a loud “keh!” and an awful crack of his whip, gallops over to the post-office.
Thither follow the whole village, all athirst for the contents of the mail-bag, which the driver sends straight at the head of the boy who appears at the threshold of the store (for calicoes are distributed on one side, letters on the other, and rum in the rear,) to receive it. The boy lugs in the bag, casts it over the counter with a wry face, and straight commences to unlock it and unloose the iron chain through its rings. That duty performed, he vomits forth the contents—tawny parcels, large and small—inside the counter, and stooping down commences, with the postmaster himself, the task of “overhauling the mail.” Now a packet would skim from his hand—and now another would take a flying leap—and now another would bound, with a jerk, away, and then he would place a parcel carefully by his side—then away would fly another packet, and then another would be placed by his knee, the latter swelling into a small pile—the mail matter for Monticello. At last, all the contents being carefully picked over, the boy would rise painfully, as if his knee joints were sore. The chain would again be thrust through the loops—the padlock locked, and the leathern sack be lifted over the counter and be transferred to the box of the expectant coach, crushed under the feet of the driver who, carefully gathering up his reins, would give a chirrup and whistle to his trampling team—off would dart the coach, and the fat old lady, and the lean old gentleman, and the cross baby between them, who by this time is very red in the face, would disappear in thick wreaths of gray dust up the turnpike leading to Cochecton on the Delaware waters.
The Monticello mail is then grasped with both hands, a package every now and then slipping to the floor, and poured upon the post-office side of the store. An untwisting of hempen strings then takes place—the tawny covers torn from letter and newspaper, and after conning a most tedious time over the packages, the postmaster commences in a drawling lazy voice to call over the names upon the backs of the letters. The Hon. Mr. Johnson (or whatever his name is at Washington) never selected his deputy for his skill in reading, I’ll be bound, or else he has been awfully taken in—for such a blunderhead I never heard attempt to call over mail matter before:
“Mr. Screw-screw—s-c-r-e-w—Screwdriver!”
“Screwdriver! who the devil’s that?” ejaculates one of the expectants.
“That’s the name on the letter, anyhow!” answers the postmaster fiercely, and spitting out enough tobacco-juice to drown all the flies in the store.
“ ‘S-s-’ that’s a ‘c’ r, stop, no that’s not an r, that’s an ‘h’-oh, Schelmsford. Mr. Schelmsford!”
“Here!” promptly responds one of the number outside the counter.
“Five cents, Mr. Schelmsford! That’s right!”
“Mr. Stickup! Is Stickup here?”
“No Stickup here.” (Or any where else I fancy, continues one sotto voce.)
“It’s likely you know as well as I do, when I’m looking right at the letter, and you are staring at the rum barrels. I’ll thank you to hold your tongue.”
“Send to Washington—have him put out—can’t read writen—dunce—fool—blunderhead—how long must we wait?” burst out in paroxysms of wrath from the expectants.
“Gentlemen have a little patience, will ye; you see what spider’s tracks this writen is. It wants optics like those of a microscope to decipher it,” responds the poor postmaster, perspiring in his dread at the awful threats of the expectants. “Now have a l-e-e-t-l-e patience and you’ll all get your letters.”
“Mrs. Soapdish!”
“Soapdish, you wretch!” shrieks a female voice in the crowd. “Soapdish, you mean puppy! Soapdish! you low fellow!”
“Yes, Soapdish!” asseverated the postmaster, who seeing it is only a woman begins to take courage. “Have you any objection to Soapdish? If you have leave the letter, that’s all. Leave the letter for the dead office at Washington, onlydon’t interruptme in my official duties, my good woman! Soapdish is a very good name, the name your husband gave you, no doubt, Mrs. Soapdish! Does she want her letter, after paying me five cents for it!”
“You mean Mrs. Soper, Mr. Skinner,” modestly observes some one from the crowd.
“No I don’t. I mean Mrs. Soapdish. Miss-es—Misses—Soap-dish—Soapdish! Stop though! what a confounded crabbed hand!” squinting over it, then glancing askance at it, and then fairly turning it upside down, after endeavoring to squint inside, as if to find the name there. “On the whole, I shouldn’t be surprised if it were ‘Soper.’ Here, take it, my good woman, and look at it yourself. If it isn’t Soapdish, it’s Soper, and one name is as good as another in Tahoo, for that’s the language the fellow has written in I verily believe,” continues he, grumbling and fumbling over his other letters.
“James Shipoker, Esq.!”
“James Shipoker, Esq.,” ejaculates the judge of the county court. “Oh, what anincorrigible ass! James Shipman you fool! Well, I can’t stand this. I’ll write to my friend, the Postmaster-General, and have you kicked out, neck and crop, you dunce you!”
“Just come and help yourselves, gentlemen! I see how it is. You wish to interrupt me to avoid paying the postage. I can see through a grindstone as well as the best of ye, especially when there’s a hole in it big enough to put John P.’s dog in. Here, boy, you come and call over the letters. See if you have any better luck!”
The store-lad fortunately could “read writen,” and after a while each one got his letter or his paper and left the post-office.
And thus endeth the second lesson. In other words, it is dinner time.
Dinner is dispatched.
The glossy dark shades begin now to stretch themselves from the golden west. The shadow of “Coit’s house” (I mean to tell a story about that also) lies strong and well-defined—a sable picture—upon the sunny green—each tree “hath wrought its separate ghost upon the”—grass. Hamble’s tall, straddling sign-post looks like a prone black giant upon the gray highway, and the long sweep of the corner-well seems like an elbow a-kimbo.
The girls and boys of the village now assemble for their usual afternoon stroll. Pleasant Pond is the point fixed upon, and accordingly we start. We turn up the green country-road leading to it, arm-in-arm. How fresh and beautiful every thing is. The wheat is goldening—the meadow grass is deepening—the pasture-fields are clovering, and the air is one incense. The distant hills are freckled with gliding shadows, and the pure pearls of clouds are dissolving as if the sky was Cleopatra’s goblet. Others are wreathing, as if to form a silver garland for the brow of Antony, whilst others are glittering in the sunlight, as if to spread a canopy of snow for the fairy barge that in old times floated along the Cydnus. The Titianesque beauty it promised in the early morning, is gloriously fulfilled—lo! it is all one bright and rich and golden glow of beauty.
So up the hill we pass, and down the hill we go, and now we are in the forest with the soft, cool, green shadow falling over us like a mantle. We are pleased with every thing—we smile at every thing—no thought of care is in our happy hearts. The world is Eden, with the angel Hope smiling us forward with her azure wings, and bidding us, with soft entreating tones, to enter in its pathways, whilst the gate, the pure white gateway, swings upon the post, shrouding our eye from all that is behind, and forcing us to dwell upon the soft and fairy picture that the future paints, to lure our steps in its delicious maze.
W-h-e-w! what a leap Pegasus has taken to be sure. Pat him gently, pat him gently, for his eye is bright with fire; pat him gently, pat him gently, for his heart is hot with ire; pat him gently, rein him gently, or his hoof will spurn the ground, and on high he’ll rise and soar and fly, with a swift and curbless bound—and, plain common sense! you will be left kicking in the mud.
Well, we’ve patted him gently, the arching of his glossy neck is over—his eye hath lost its mad brightness, his hoof settles into his customary trot, and “Pegasus is himself again”—Shakspeare.
Hurrah! the pond is in view, appearing like a great looking-glass. Come, let us hurry to the bank and have some fun. Here is our usual parlor—a floor of silver sand—a roof of thick woven laurels—mossy logs for our chairs, and the pond itself for our mirror. Here we are safe and sound—call the roll!—no one missing. Now, now will we speed the bright hours away, all shod with pure gold from the sun’s merry ray; with song and with laughter we will wait till the west with gold and with crimson the wreathed clouds has dressed; no care shall distract us, no sorrow annoy, again you’re a girl and once more I’m a boy; with a pure sky above us, and heaven within, ere you had known trouble or I had known sin; let pleasure then smile on us—throw care away, come what may, comewhat will, we’ll be happy to-day. So we will—say one, say all.
A party of us “male critturs” now leave the ladies plunged deep in song and sentiment, for a plunge in the delicate balm of the waters stretched like a dream of delight far, far away to our vision.
About half a mile from the party is a deep narrow cove, with a long wooded point shutting it completely from observation. It is the most lovely and retired spot in the universe for a “quiet dip.” And, reader, here let me inform you, that bathing in our American ponds, and bathing in the surf at the sea-side, are two different things. In the latter case you go habited in a night-gown, striped like a state’s-prison bird, and with many an “oh!” and “ah!” you feel your way over the moist cool sand. At length you see the tall wave lifting itself up like a rearing war-horse, and with silver-mane flashing, and azure-breast dashing, on it comes. You stand stock still with suspended breath, and at length you see the glittering and magnificent billow combing right over your head. You involuntarily duck, but there is no escape, down comes the gorgeous thing, slap, right over your whole person, wetting you through in an instant, and as staggering and blinded you reel back to the shore, you hear the delicious crumble of the wave upon the beach, than which no sound in nature can be so deep and yet so rich, so sounding and yet so mellow. But fresh water bathing is a different matter. No striped night-gowns, but “in puribus naturalibus,” (I don’t know whether that is good Latin or not, and don’t care,) you walk boldly along some cool, soft, mossy log, its surface yielding like velvet to your naked feet, and, souse, head first you dive into the limpid element.
And that was the case with us, until a dozen heads were on the surface looking like magnified lily blossoms. A close net of these lilies was woven in the water about six feet from the shore, the water being perfectly paved with the great broad leaves, and it was necessary to break our way right through them before reaching the deeper waters of the cove. And right through them our way did we break. We made a charge like a charge of South Sea Islanders, and though the tough, spongy, supple stems clung around our limbs as if they meant to drag us under—and the strong, thick, gigantic leaves, huge as the ear-flaps of the moose, (who, by the bye, luxuriates upon the pond water lily,) cut our arms and flapped heavily in our faces—and the round, cylindrical, yellow blossoms kept bobbing into our mouths and knocking into our eyes, we persevered until we struggled through them, and reached the deep water. And then didn’t we luxuriate. Some “trod water,” some stretched themselves out for a long swim, and one huge fellow, with fat enough to keep him floating whether or no, elongated himself in a most wonderful manner, laying his head flat upon the water at every impulsion of his body snorting all the time like a porpoise. At length we became tired of the deep water, and concluded to adjourn to the shallows inside the lilies, and have a battle of shooting water at each other. This sport was the usual termination to our baths.
Accordingly we hastened to the battle-ground, and took opposite sides. Arranged in two long lines, we approached each other, each elbow drawn back, and hand raised so as to bring the bottom of the palm on a level with the water. In silence did we eye each other for a season—the word then came, and then commenced the battle. And furiously raged the strife. Not the legions of Cæsar pouring from their galleys, and the wild warriors of Britain’s snowy cliffs—not the fiercemustachesof Napoleon, and the sturdy red-coats of Wellington, poured greater destruction upon one another, than we dashed the glittering crystal of the frighted cove on each other’s ranks. Nofaltering—no backing—but looking steadily as the blinding water would allow, into the eyes of our foes, we plied our work—nofaltering—no backing—but looking steadily as the blinding water would allow into the eyes oftheirfoes, they also plied their work. Closer and closer we approached, and then, each one singling his opposite for single combat, closed for desperate strife. One cataract of tumbling water, raised by four scooping hands, now sheltered two combatants, who finding the shots too heavy for face and eyes, fairly turned back to back and madly dashed behind them the flashing water. At length nearly blinded, all simultaneously retreated from each other and sought the brink—all but the fat-headed, porpoise-breathing fellow before mentioned, who, blinded by his own torrents of water, and supposing that his antagonist was still contending, kept up a most determined, desperate, and valorous dashing, until gasping, choking, and blind from the cataracts which his own hands scooped, and which dashed upon his own carcase, he turned at last to the shore, bawling lustily for “quarter, quarter!” yelling at the same time—“I yield—I yield—I yield!”
By the time this worthy had reached the shore, the rest of us were dressed, and accordingly this victim to his own courage, was obliged to undergo the interesting ceremony of “mumbling the peg!” Plucking at last, with his strong teeth, the peg, driven fast and deep into the firm earth by the heels of certainly a half dozen, he dons his garments, and we all then join the ladies. By this time the pond is turning all colors in the sunset. There, in the middle of its glassy surface, is a blush as beautiful as ever crimsoned the cheek of beauty whilst listening to the whispers of the dearly loved—and near it is a space of golden water, lustrous as the shield ofGalahad when approaching the “round table” of Arthur and his knights, (knight most blest,) he proclaimed he had found the “holy grail.” Purple is not wanting, rich as that around the neck of the wild pigeon—nor emerald either, bright as the hue that glitters on the body of the house-fly—nor glossy black, deep as the thunder-cloud’s bosom when coming to scathe and destroy. Ah, how the tints glow—ah, how they tremble, such as in the rainbow show, such do they resemble. Ah, how the tints glow, and mingle, and pulsate—now are they woven in one gorgeous robe that really makes plain Pleasant Pond look like some paradisiacal scene of “the reign of Haroun Alraschid.” But at last the colors fade—they die, alas! alas! alas!—they fade—they die—and now remains of all that brilliant Eden not one single gleam. All—all has departed.
By the time we ascend the banks, thread the labyrinth of “Bates’ ” logging, and regain the road, the harvest-moon has risen. Snow white in the pearly twilight, she soon will deepen into gold, and then change into deep silver. Behold she changes even now, and the twilight deepens, and now the broad and magnificent moonlight reigns. Ah, how glorious! ah, how beautiful! A silver day is smiling, more soft, more delicate, more radiantly pure than the “garish” one that just went glittering out through the rosy portals of the west. The near forests and the distant hills are all suffused, and mingled, and melted into a sweet romantic picture of bewitching beauty. Back we retrace our path through the jeweled woods, and now, scenting the odor of the clover-grass, we diverge from our road into the deep cool verdure of the meadow. No danger of dampening the dainty delicate feet of our girls either, for there has been no rain for a month, and the earth is as dry as powder. So we wade through the swaying verdure, and enjoy the “compacted sweets” of the clover odors. Thence we scramble over a rough stone-wall, the girls giving pretty screams, and holding up their petti—I beg pardon, drapery, so as to jump more readily, and enter a corn-field. The rich soil loosened by the hoe crumbles at our tread, and the plumy stalks shake above our heads, almost excluding the moonlight. Mercy, what round thing is that I stumbled over just then! not a skull I hope, although corn-fields before now have sprung above church-yards and battle-fields. Who knows but this field now rustles above some “Indian burial-place” or frontier battle-ground. However, this can’t be a skull, for my foot has just “squashed” into another, and—why it is only a pumpkin. Confound the long vines too, how they trip one up. What on earth is the reason that they can’t plant corn-fields without putting pumpkins in also? They only serve to trip up the girls and boys who condescend of a summer’s night to enter the precincts.
I fancy a young ear of corn would not be unacceptable. A young, green, succulent ear of corn. So come here you plumed chieftain, “lend me your ears,” or rather, plumed chieftain! I will take you by the ears. I will cut off your ears, plumed chieftain! all feathered, and satined, and tasseled as thou art. Yea, verily will I, plumed chieftain! so here goes. I tear off the emerald sheath and lo! the silver ear—pearly rich art thou, silver ear of the plumed chieftain! all feathered, and satined, and tasseled as he is, and I don’t think thou wilt be less rich when the red fire shall make thee tawny and fit for the teeth.
But we leave the corn-field, with its infernal pumpkins, and once more merrily wend our way along the moonlit road. Ah, here is the path diverging to the “camp-meeting ground.” We are bound to enter, and so we do. How sweetly quiet is the little glade with the forest sleeping in a silver calm around it. Does not the echo now repeal the loud enthusiastic “amens” that then awoke the air at the last “camp meeting,” and the struggling agonized prayer of that gray-headed old man “that God would blot out his sins for they had been many?” Does it not now, even now, seem to thrill amidst those slumbering leaves? And the low music of that lovely maiden’s commune with her God, as if he were her earthly father, so tender, so affectionate—ah, her prayers were known in heaven. The seraphs knew them as the prayers of one, pure as themselves, the Son knew them as the usual breathings of a spotless soul, and the Mighty Father knew them too, and loved and accepted them. Heaven is made of such pure souls, oh, sweet and prayerful maiden!
And the loud triumphant singing—the halleluiahs of the throng. Oh, how they sprung from the earth—oh, how they spread their wings—oh, how they flew up to glory! Oh how they sprung—oh how they spread, oh how they flew up to glory! Burning songs—burning songs, oh how they flew up to glory!
But we leave this moonlight picture of peace and serenity and seek once more our homeward road. We ascend the hill, and beneath us, slumbering in the magnificent moonlight, lo! our beautiful village. Sleeping in the moonlight, lo! our quiet, our peaceful, our beautiful village.
See, how the church steeple rises, soaring up, soaring up, in the solemn and silvered heavens, with its vane sparkling like a dew-gemmed lark hovering over the steeple. Hark! from that silvered steeple, soaring up, soaring up in the solemn and silvered heavens there seems to come a song, thrilling along the hushed and listening air, like the song of that same dew-gemmed lark when he springs triumphant upon the highest cloud of the morning. Hark! I hear the song, it trembles through my soul. Listen, listen, listen to the moonlight song of the praising and soaring steeple.