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
This pointed reminder among the leaves fairly pricks my conscience as I
recall the many October escapades in which it formed the chief
attraction. I remember one occasion in particular, for it is indelibly
impressed on my memory, and it was on this very spot. A party of
adventurous lads, myself among the number, were out for a glorious
holiday. Each had his canvas bag across his shoulder, and we stole along
the stone wall yonder, and entered the woods beneath that group of
chestnuts. Two of us acted as outposts on picket guard; and another,
young Teddy Shoopegg by name, the best climber in the village, did the
shaking. He prided himself on being able to “shin up any tree in the
caounty,” and after he had once got up among those chestnut-trees we
stood from under, and in a very short space of time no single burr was
left among their branches. There were five busy pairs of hands beneath
those trees, I can tell you, for each one of us fully realized the
necessity of making the most of his time, not knowing how soon the
warning cry from our outposts might put us all to headlong flight; for
the alarm, “Turney’s coming!” was enough to lift the hair of any boy in
town.
[Illustration: A POINTED REMINDER.]
But luck seemed to favor us on that day; we “cleaned out” six big
chestnut-trees, and then turned our attention to the hickories. There
was a splendid tall shagbark close by, with branches fairly loaded with
the white nuts in their open shucks. They were all ready to drop, and
when the shaking once commenced, the nuts came down like a shower of
hail, bounding from the rocks, rattling among the dry leaves, and
keeping up a clatter all around. We scrambled on all fours, and gathered
them by quarts and quarts. There was no need of poking over the leaves
for them, the ground was covered with them in plain sight. While busily
engaged, we noticed an ominous lull among the branches overhead.
“’Sst! ’sst!” whispered Shoopegg up above; “I see old Turney on his
white horse daown the road yender.”
“Coming this way?” also in a whisper, from below.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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