Pastoral Days; or, Memories of a New England YearGibson, W. Hamilton (William Hamilton)
History
Pastoral Days; or, Memories of a New England Year
Gibson, W. Hamilton (William Hamilton)
Natural history -- New England; Natural history -- Outdoor books
Many like me are happy in the possession of a dear old homestead; but
there are few, I ween, who enjoy the blessing of a double inheritance
such as has been my lot--two homes which share my equal devotion, two
homes without a choice; the one this beloved heirloom in Hometown, and
the other--But you shall see. We shall be there soon, for the little
satchel is packed, and the carriage awaits us at the gate. A drive of
eighteen miles is before us--a beautiful series of pictures. Down
through the village, past the old red mill and smithy, with its ringing
anvil, and we are soon winding our way through a sombre glen. Presently
we catch glimpses of the great rumbling factory, with its clouds of
smoke and steam melting into the wooded mountain above. The old yellow
bridge now creaks under our approach, and ere we are aware a sudden turn
leads us out of a wilderness on to the shore of the beautiful
Housatonic. For a few minutes the rushing water trickles through the
wheels as over jolting stones our pony leads us through the ford, and,
refreshed by the cool bath, makes a lively sally up the eastern bank.
For ten miles the Housatonic guides us around its winding curves through
a path of ever-changing beauty, now shut in by the dense, dark
evergreens, and again emerging into a bower of silvery beeches, where
the roadway is carpeted with mottled shadows, and the dappled trunks
flicker with the softened glints of sunlight. Here we come upon a sandy
stretch where the road is sunken between two sloping banks thick-set
with mulleins and sweet-fern, and overrun with creeping brambles. The
stone-wall above is wreathed in trailing woodbine, and along its crest
we see the swaying tips of wheat from the edge of the field just beyond;
and here we pass a border of whortleberry bushes, laden with their
fruit. Now it is a hazel thicket crowding close upon our wheels, and
among the leaves we see the brown, tanned husks of the ripening nuts,
almost ready for that troop of boys and girls that you may be sure are
watching and waiting for them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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