 | CHAPTER XI. Forest life |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
Assured that no mock shower is shed.
Where was I? as the causeurs impitoyables
always say. Oh! telling of our dinner in the
woods.
When all was done, the cold beef and its attendant
pickles,—the pies and the cake and the huge
loaf were returned “each to the niche it was ordained
to fill” in the champagne basket that served
to hold our treasures. The little tin pail of butter
which had been carefully placed in the water, was
now re-wrapped in its shroud of fresh leaves, and
we set forth again, but under a threatening aspect
of the heavens. We had been so amused watching
Leo's gambols in the still transparent water, that
we had not noticed the gathering clouds, which
now grew apace thicker and heavier than we could
have desired. Nevertheless on we went, and at a
good pace, for our steeds had been as well refreshed
as ourselves, and seemed to understand beside that
there might be reasonable ground for haste. Not a
house was to be descried, for in the back route we
had chosen, settlers are few and scattered, and
much of the road lay through tracts of untouched
timber, where one was obliged sometimes to take
good heed of the great H hacked on the trees by
Highway.
And now the rain came down in earnest. No
pattering drops,—no warning sprinkle,—but a
sudden deluge, which wet every thing through in
half a minute. Onward, good Prince!—en avant,
Quicksilver! (for thou art of French extraction;)
shining and smoking as ye are, with torrents
streaming down your innocent noses, adopt David
Crocket's motto, so often quoted and acted upon by
our compatriots,—“Go ahead!” If bonnets and
veils,—if gingham and broadcloth or their wearers
find any favor in your eyes, let not water extinguish
your fire! Think of our soaking bread! Think
of your own swimming oats, and as ye love not
“spoon-vittles,” hasten.
The rain spatters up from the rail-fences so as to
create a small fog on every rail. The puddles in
the road look as if they were boiling, and the sky
seems to grow more ponderous as it discharges its
burden. We have emerged upon a clearing, and
there is a liquid sheet between us and the distant
woods.
But there is a roof! I see a stick chimney! and
there is a drenched cow crowding in beneath a
strawy barrack, and some forlorn fowls huddled
under an old cart. We approach the habitations of
men, and we may not doubt a good fire and a kind
welcome,—so forward, good steeds!
The log-house proved a small one, and though
its neat corn-crib and chicken-coop of slender poles
bespoke a careful gudeman, we found no gate in
front, but in its stead great awkward bars which
were to be taken down or climbed over; and either
of these is no pleasant process in a pouring rain.
But by the aid of a little patience we made our
way into the house, which had only a back door, as
is very usual among the early settlers.
Within, marks of uncomfortable though strictly
neat and decent poverty were but too evident.
No well-stored dresser,—no snug curtains,—no
shining tins,—no gorgeous piece-work bed-quilts,
exhibiting stars of all magnitudes and moons in all
quarters. Not even the usual display of Sunday
habiliments graced the bare log walls. The good
woman was of a shadowy thinness, and her husband,
with a green shade over his eyes, wore a
downcast and desponding air. One little girl with
her yellow hair done up in many a papillote sat in
a corner playing with a kitten. The mother put
down her knitting as we entered, but the father
seemed to have been sitting in listless idleness.
We were received with that free and hospitable
welcome so general among the pioneers of the
West. Our wet garments were carefully disposed
for drying, and even the buffalo-robes and blankets
found place on those slender poles which are usually
observable above the ample fireplace of a regular
sometimes the week's wash, when the weather
proves rainy,—sometimes whole rows of slender
circlets of pumpkins for next spring's pies,—sometimes
(when we can get them) festoons of sliced
apples. The rain gave no sign of truce; the eaves
poured incessantly, and we heard the rumbling of
distant thunder. There was every prospect that
we should be constrained to become unwilling intruders
on the kindness of Mr. Gaston and his family,
for the night at least.
When this was mentioned, the good woman,
after expressing her willingness to do the very best
she could for us, could not forbear telling us there
had been a time when she could have entertained
us decently under such circumstances. “But those
days are gone by,” she said with a sigh; “trouble
has followed us so long that I don't look for any
thing else now. We left a good home in York
state because my old man couldn't feel contented
when he saw the neighbors selling out and coming
to the West to get rich. And we bought so much
land that we hadn't enough left to stock it, and
improve it; but after a while we had got a few
acres under improvement, and begun to have
enough for our own consumption, although nothing
to sell, and we had to part with some of our land
to pay taxes on the rest—and then we took our
pay in wild-cat money, that turned to waste paper
took on dreadful hard upon that,—and we all had
the ague,—and then his eyes took sore,—and he
is almost blind—too blind to see to work more
than half the time. So we've been getting down,
down, down! But I needn't cry,” said the poor
creature, wiping her eyes; “for I'm sure if tears
could have bettered our condition, we'd have been
well off long ago.”
Here was an apology for poverty, indeed! How
many complain of poverty, sitting in silks and laces,
at tables covered with abundance! What groans
over “hard times” have we not heard from jewelled
bosoms within these two or three years! What
rebuffs are always ready for those who take upon
themselves the pleasant office of soliciting of the
superfluity of the rich for the necessities of the
poor! “Hard times!” say the unthinking children
of luxury, as they sip their ice-cream, or hold
up to the light the rosy wine!
This log-cabin with its civil and respectable
inhabitants would furnish a lesson for such economists,
if indeed they were willing to learn of the
poor to appreciate the over-abounding comforts of
their lot.
Our hostess was a very active and tidy person,
and she busied herself in all those little offices
which evince a desire to make guests feel themselves
welcome. She had small change of garments
and drying before the fire such as we could dispense
with for the time; for we hoped the storm would
be but shortlived, and did not wish to open our
trunks until we stopped for the night. The rain
however slackened not, but on the contrary frequent
flashes of lightning, and a muttering thunder which
seemed momently to draw nearer, threatened still
longer detention. The eaves poured merrily, and
it was amusing to see our little hostess, with an
old cloak over her head, fly out to place tubs, pails,
jars, basins and milk-pans so as to intercept as
much as possible of the falling treasure, intimating
that as soap was pretty scarce she must try to catch
rain-water, any how. A trough scooped from the
portly trunk of a large whitewood-tree was so
placed as to save all that fell from one side of the
roof, but on the other almost all the utensils of the
house were arranged by the careful dame, who
made frequent trips for the purpose of exchanging
the full for the empty—apologizing for not calling
upon “th' old man” to assist her, because getting
wet might increase the inflammation of his eyes.
Mrs. Gaston had carried out her last milk-pail
and was returning to the door when the sound of
wheels was heard above the rattling of the storm;
and in another moment a loud “Hilloa!” told that
other travellers beside ourselves were about to seek
shelter.
“I'll tell 'em to drive on to Jericho,” said Mrs.
Gaston, “for we can't make them any ways comfortable
here.” “What! two mile further in this
rain!” rejoined her husband; “no, no, that'll
never do. The shower won't last long; let 'em
come in.” And he would take his great straw hat
and go out to invite in this new windfall.
| CHAPTER XI. Forest life | |