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 Butterflies 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 withpatches of improved land, and patches partly improved, and fields of stumpsthat the pioneer had just passed over with his axe. The great sweep of landaround it, however, was a wilderness--not a thicket--not a dense mass oftimber, nor a swamp--but a rolling plain of upland prairie, andheavily-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 assmooth and shaven as an English park. No undergrowth obstructed the eye,and the outline of a deer might be discerned two miles distant. Trees uponthe distant ground-swells, amid their quivering shadows, appeared to beriding upon waves. In this gigantic park, which overreached degrees oflongitude, flowers of every form and hue budded, blossomed, faded, anddied, from May until November. The prairies were so many blooming seas; andwhen the soft south-west stirred up their depths, they shed a gorgeouslight, as if they were breathing out rainbow colors.
The rivers that watered this waste were large, and flowed from still deepersolitudes towards the great lakes. The sun, as ancient as they, rose andset upon them now as it did centuries ago. The forests upon their bankssprang up, flourished, waxed old, and died; and still the river ran, andnew forests rose upon the ruins of the old, and the glory of the new stoodimplanted in the grave of the old. The bison, moose, and bear drank fromthe 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 toChristian missionaries more than a century ago. It was up these streamsthat the French Jesuit,[C] with his eye aloft, and the cross erect, paddledhis solitary canoe among the aborigines. Here he built his camp-firebeneath the stars, and told his rosary in the awful presence of hisGod--how awful, indeed, in such a spot, at such a time! We can almost seethe 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 inhis presence, like a monument in wonder.
The footprints of the Jesuits are still found upon the bluffs of theserivers. Mounds, which were thrown by them into square and circular forms,now roofless and silent, and matted all over with vines, still bearwitness to their devotion. Yet how little is thought of them now! Becausethe Jesuits did not till the earth, and sow, and reap, and swell thecommerce of the world: but didn't they sow? They sowed the seeds ofeverlasting life among the simple children of the forest; and _they_ havesown from age to age since, and many an Indian still offers the prayerwhich was taught his forefathers so long ago.
Such, reader, were the woods around Puddleford, and such the associations.I was in the habit of going down into their depths, and scrapingacquaintance with the inhabitants. It was a relief to me. I sometimes evenwent 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. Themorning was still and bright, and the dash of a distant rivulet, which Icould step across, filled the "long drawn aisles" with its echoes. I hadbeen down often during the summer, but every object looked strangelydifferent now. The first frost had given Nature a shock--a kind of palsy;she looked serene, almost sad. Its inmates had gadded about during thesummer in a very reckless way; they looked more sober after the firstfrost--more thoughtful--more anxious about something.
It was late in September, and yet "the storms of the wild Equinox, with allits wet," had not come. It was due and over-due. Amid the more hardyfoliage the first frost had drawn his brush in the most delicate waypossible--a mere tinge, and no more--a kind of autumnal hint. There was onelimb of an oak just changing, and the balance of the tree stood up asbravely and defiant as ever; the soft maple was completely dipped--itblazed; the aspen trembled and glowed; the hickory was only touched, andstill hesitated about her full suit of yellow; while the dog-wood and spicebush had entirely given up the ghost.
It was just after the first frost, so I went down to the banks of therivulet that had so long been singing its woodland psalm. It came from awayoff somewhere, and strayed, and dove over precipices, and spread intominiature 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 itsway up the gorge, and literally struck a sisterhood of frosted sumachs, andthey 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 noticedit many times before during the season. It was then hung with large-mouthedflowers, which opened with the morning. Was it a summer chime of bells thattolled the sunlight into the temple?--the forest clock, that opened andshut the hours? The bells were broken now; the first frost had crackedthem. I saw a bird, dressed in blue, run up the vine, and hitch along in avery deliberate way, and peer into this bell and into that, as if hewondered why they did not spread; but this might have been an odd fancy ofmine.
The first frost seemed to have passed through the tree-tops that rolledover the gorge in a hurry. The prominent points of the foliage were tuftedwith russet, but its hollows and dells were as green as ever.
The woodland harvest was nigh--the Creator's own harvest, sown and reapedwithout the aid of man. The pawpaw began to shed its fruit; mandrakes stoodup all over the forest, like umbrellas loaded with apples of gold; thewild cucumber was bending under its own weight; the bark of the hickory andbeech nut was broken, and the fruit peeped out; acorns were loosening intheir cups; the grape was purple and fragrant, and ready to gush withrichness; and away down below me I noticed a crabbed, sour-looking plumtree, holding on to the hill-side with all its energy, and covered with itsrosy-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 theirseeds long before; but the flaming, cardinal-fringed gentian, the yellowmoccasin, and troops of lilies, still crowded the swales and watercourses,braving out the first frost. Insects were singing a melancholy dirge aroundme; a bee droned past in great haste, with a consequential hum; the yearwas passing and dying, like a vibration over the earth.
The air was filled with winged seeds, sailing away off here and away offthere, and going I do not know where. The wild cotton burst its pod, andfurred out at a great rate; a large company of thistle balloons rolled uplazily into the sky, and went out of sight (to the stars, probably),directed by some invisible hand to the place of their destination. Birdswere picking and carrying clusters of grapes and s'coke far and wide. Howbeautifully Nature sows her solemn wastes! The winds and the birds are herhusbandmen, and the work goes on with a song.
There was a bustle in a hickory--a black squirrel was flirting about, andmaking an examination of the crop. He had come early into theharvest-field. He ran up and down the branches, nipped the nuts, jumpedupon his haunches, thought a while, chattered to himself, and said--or Ithought he said--"Little too soon"--"Little too soon"--"Come again"--"Comeagain." At a distance, a male partridge, with his tail curved like a fan,and his feathers erect, was blustering and strutting around with greatpomp, as consequential as a Broadway fop--a rabbit, crouched in a heap, satoff timidly under an upturned root, eating a pawpaw--a lonely snipe cametetering up the rivulet--a robin lit upon a scoke-bush, picked a berry ortwo, whistled, took a kind of last look, and departed; a little bird, asrich as sunset, next startled me with a stream of fire, which he wovethrough the green foliage, as if he were tying it up with a blazing cord; asanctimonious crow floated in circles in the air, and screamed verysav
agely to things below him, like a preacher in a passion; and I heardturkeys clucking and calling to each other in every direction.
Suddenly, a flock of pigeons broke the few bars of light that werestruggling down, and wheeled to a dry limb, at a respectful distance; theyranged themselves in rows like platoons of soldiers, and bowed forwards andsideways, in a very polite, diplomatic way. A few words passed betweenthem--(pigeons don't talk much)--exchanging, no doubt, opinions of me andmy whereabouts. By and by, one spread his wings and fluttered to theground, and began feeding--then another, and another, until the whole flockdescended, except three sentinels, who remained posted to watch and guard.I knew them well. There was a "roost" in a tamarack swamp, some milesdistant. Not long before, I had visited their noisy metropolis. It was atthe close of day, and its evergreen canopy was half-dipped in light. Irecollected what hosts came thronging in, on all sides, roaring like atempest, and how they piled themselves upon the top of each other upon theboughs like swarming bees--and how all night the trees bent and crackedwith the crowded population, who seemed continually treading upon eachother'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 troubledcity was as silent as fallen Babylon.
I like the pigeon. He has a business-way, and a way of minding his ownbusiness. He is always doing something. Who ever saw a pigeon trifle orfrolic, or put on airs? He is the clipper of the skies' air-line. Eighthundred miles a day, few stoppages, and no bursting of boilers. He is apractical bird--no such dreamy, twilight sort of a thing as thewhippoorwill, who is forever complaining about nothing, like a miserablerhymester--whir--whir--whir. "Ah! you are going. Pay my respects to thealligators among the rice swamps of Florida," said I, "when you see themnext winter."
The pigeons were started by the bay of hounds. By their voice, the houndshad probably been on the chase during most of the night--(it was a wearyvoice and almost painful)--and I soon discovered that they wereapproaching. Soon a drove of deer, led forward by a noble buck, carryingantlers like tree-branches, came crashing by, leaped the ravine, and weresoon followed by their pursuers, and I watched them afar over the plainuntil they were lost. I knew the dogs. They belonged to Venison Styles. Butwhere was Venison? I could see the old hunter, in my imagination, standingaway off on some "run-way," listening to the strife around him, andwatching for his victims.
Perhaps you know, and perhaps you _don't_ know, reader, that deer, atcertain seasons of the year, have "run-ways"--that they have great_high_ways--thoroughfares that follow mountains, thread morasses, crosslakes and streams, up and down which they travel. I cannot say who firstlaid them out. It may be they can tell. If I ever find out, I will let youknow.
I was next overhauled by a fleet of white butterflies, who came windingdown the brook in a very loitering sort of a way. They anchored in front ofme, near the water's edge, and amused themselves by opening and shuttingtheir huge sails--huge for butterflies. Their wings were all bedropped withgold, and powdered with silver dust. Then another fleet, arrayed inchocolate 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 theirlordly superiors. What brush touched those rich and delicate wings? Whatalchemist wrought those magical colors? Who put on those gorgeous uniforms?Were they equipped for the beauty and glory of the world, or their own? Forwhat purpose was this winged mystery sent upon the earth? Just here a largefrog, who had been sitting on a stone near the water, wrapped up to hiseyes in his green surtout, looking as taciturn and gloomy as the Pope, wentdown 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 iscalled, was digging up the mud, which he carried to a hollow log, where helived. He was "plastering up a little." The "paper-wasp" was gathering wildcotton and flax, and manufacturing it, for his palace that hung, halffurnished, swinging in a tree like a top. Strange that man should have solong remained without the secret of making paper--when the wasp had madeand hung it up high before his eyes, for so many thousand years!
Thus, reader, the great wilderness was alive--and away down the chain ofanimated being, beyond the reach of the eye or ear, there was life--busylife--all links in a great chain held and electrified by the hand of theAlmighty.
What sermons there were all around me--Nature preaching through her works!What cathedral like this, with its living pillars--its dome of sun, andmoon, and stars? Morn swings back its portals with light and song, andevening gently closes them again amid her deepening shadows--and theworship and work goes on like the swell of an anthem; but the greathigh-priest that worshipped at its altars, and burnt incense to the spiritthat pervades this solitude, where is he? Where are his fires now? Thetemple still stands, and the anthem is still heard, but the worshippers aregone "Lo! the poor Indian."
FOOTNOTES:
[C] Father Hennepin and others.