Dream Life: A Fable of the SeasonsMitchell, Donald Grant
General
Dream Life: A Fable of the Seasons
Mitchell, Donald Grant
Essays; Life
His lands lie along those swelling hills, which in southern New England
carry the chain of the White and Green Mountains in gentle undulations
to the borders of the sea. He farms some fifteen hundred
acres,--"suitably divided," as the old-school agriculturists say, into
"woodland, pasture, and tillage." The farm-house--a large,
irregularly-built mansion of wood--stands upon a shelf of the hills
looking southward, and is shaded by century-old oaks. The barns and
out-buildings are grouped in a brown phalanx a little to the northward
of the dwelling. Between them a high timber gate opens upon the
scattered pasture lands of the hills; opposite to this and across the
farmyard, which is the lounging-place of scores of red-necked turkeys
and of matronly hens, clucking to their callow brood, another gate of
similar pretensions opens upon the wide meadow-land, which rolls with a
heavy "ground-swell" along the valley of a mountain river. A veteran oak
stands sentinel at the brown meadow-gate, its trunk all scarred with the
ruthless cuts of new-ground axes, and the limbs garnished in
summer-time with the crooked snathes of murderous-looking scythes.
The high-road passes a stone's-throw away; but there is little "travel"
to be seen; and every chance passer will inevitably come under the range
of the kitchen windows, and be studied carefully by the eyes of the
stout dairy-maid,--to say nothing of the stalwart Indian cook.
This last you cannot but admire as a type of that noble old race, among
whom your boyish fancy has woven so many stories of romance. You wonder
how she must regard the white interlopers upon her own soil; and you
think that she tolerates the Squire's farming privileges with more
modesty than you would suppose. You learn however that she pays very
little regard to white rights--when they conflict with her own; and
further learn, to your deep regret, that your Princess of the old tribe
is sadly addicted to cider-drinking; and having heard her once or twice
with a very indistinct "Goo-er night, Sq-quare" upon her lips, your
dreams about her grow very tame.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account