University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

The evening had fallen when we arrived at our
lodging-place, and the stars were beginning to be
visible, like specks of chaste silver in the dazzling
but shaded gold of the western sky. We had left
Constantinople several miles behind us, and the
dwelling to which we had now come stood solitary
in the centre of a wide clearing, with not a tree of
the dense forest left to shade it from the burning
sun. This was nothing new to us, for it is the
prevailing taste of the country, but one can never
get accustomed to so barbarous a fashion. The
new feature on this occasion consisted in thirteen
huge pillars, not supporting the low roof of the
cottage, but standing in a semicircle, with nothing
above them but the star-spangled arch of night.
They were of Saxon proportions—almost as thick
as they were high; and they bore not the outline
of mere stumps, for they were of nearly even
size throughout. Black-looking and ominous things
were they, and in the dying light they gave

the scene an air of Druid gloom. As we drew up
at the bars the house-dogs barked, and with some
aid from Leo, made abundance of noise, but no
sign of humanity greeted our approach. One does
not wait for invitation however in such cases, and
we opened the door upon a sad scene.

The master of the family, a stout farmer of forty,
whom we had met only a day or two before, lay
extended on the bed, evidently beyond the help of
man. His eyes had begun already to wear the
cold glaze of death, and his countenance expressed
an intensity of anxiety and distress which was
fully reflected in the faces gathered around his bed.
An awful silence, which we of course were most
careful not to disturb, reigned in the room, broken
only at long intervals by a faint moan from the dying
man, echoed with heart-breaking emphasis by
his poor wife, who wiped his forehead frequently,
with a trembling hand. A large family of children,
and two or three neighbors, made up the company,
and one of the latter, stepping out of the door,
beckoned my husband, and explained the dreadful
casualty which had thus brought sorrow like a
whirlwind.

The poor man had been crushed by a falling
tree. He had been an adventurous and successful
bee-hunter, and the pillars which had attracted our
attention were the trophies of his triumphs in this
line. He had by his very success been excited
to still further effort, intending to surpass all his

neighbors in his collection of bees, and in the quantity
of honey which he should prepare for market.
The thirteen monuments near his house had every
one been procured at the risk of life or limb. They
were the shafts of bee-trees, found in the forest at
much expense of time and trouble, and cut down
with so much skill as not to disturb the inhabitants,
although this implies not only felling, but also
cutting off all that part of the tree which grows
above the hive.

The mode in which this is accomplished is this:
another tree, or perhaps more than one, is first felled
in such a direction as to form an elastic bed for the
reception of the bee-tree, which thus falls without
shattering itself to pieces, as from its hollowness it
is sure to do when it falls on the ground. The
upper portion is then to be removed, and when
this is very heavy, as is generally the case, since
the hives are almost always found in very large old
trees, the greatest care and accuracy are requisite to
prevent a tremendous and dangerous rebound of
one or both the parts.

After all his experience and all his triumphs,
poor Mallory, perhaps grown less careful as he
became more self-confident, had received the whole
force of a huge limb across his neck and shoulders,
and though no fracture could be discovered, it was
evident from the first, that death was in the blow.

There was not only no medical aid in the neighborhood,
but his son, who was his assistant on the

occasion, was obliged to walk two miles before he
could procure a yoke of oxen and a sled on which
to bear him home. One scarcely dares to imagine
what his wife must have suffered as she pursued
her weary way over a thousand obstacles to the
depth of the dense wood where she was to find
him dying—perhaps dead. But it may be that
our imaginations would not picture such scenes
faithfully. He who “tempers the wind to the
shorn lamb,” does not, we may hope, give to those
of his children, whose lot it is to dare the perils and
trials of the unhewn wilderness, that cultivated
sensitiveness which places new and keen weapons
in the hand of sorrow. Their lives are occupied
with stern realities—some of them sad and heavy
ones; and the necessity for constant effort and for
habitual fortitude, is a protection against the exaggerations
of fancy.

The woodsman is continually subject to accidents
of the most appalling kind. Added to the
incredible toil of clearing heavily timbered land,
the hardy settler goes to his work every morning
with the consciousness that only the same Providence
that could preserve him unharmed on the
field of battle, can shield him from the perils of his
daily labor. The ordinary operation of cutting
down large trees, if performed where the timber is
scattered, involves considerable risk; since a splinter,
a limb heavier than was allowed for, or a heart
more decayed than appeared outwardly, may thwart

his nice calculations, and wound if not kill him.
But it is in the dark and heavy wood, where the
fathers of the forest stand in ranks almost as serried
as those of the columns of Staffa, that peculiar
dangers are found. If a tree, when felled, happen
to lodge against another, it is almost a miracle if it
is dislodged without an accident. This the best
and most experienced woodsmen acknowledge, yet
there are few of them who can resist the temptation
to try. In cutting down the supporting tree, the
one first felled is almost certain either to slide or to
rebound in a way which baffles all calculation, and
accidents from this cause are frightfully frequent.
The only safe course is to girdle the second tree,
and let both stand until they decay, or until some
heavy storm sweeps down the incumbrance. But
this involves too great a vexation to the axeman,
since his ambition is to see the piece of land he
has undertaken to clear, bereft, of every thing but
the unsightly stumps which attest his skill and
bravery.

Here the fatal consequences of too adventurous
daring had brought woe unutterable, and we could
read volumes of anguished thought in the darkening
countenance of the sufferer, as he rolled his
dim eye slowly round the circle of youthful countenances,
and fixed it at last on the face of his wife.

“If you and they were provided for”—he said
in a faint, husky voice,—and he tried to add—
“God's will be done!”

The words were not fully audible, but the feeling
was there, for the calm expression which belonged
to it took gradual possession of the sunken
features.

To stay to witness so heart-rending a scene
would have been worse than useless, for what
could we do or say? If a stranger “intermeddleth
not with our joy,” how much less with our sorrow!

A lad had been sent fifteen miles for the nearest
physician, and at this moment a slight bustle at the
door announced their arrival. As the medical man
entered, we withdrew, and, setting out once more,
drove on with overburdened hearts to the next
house, which was perhaps three miles off. There
we explained our circumstances and asked for
lodging, which was very hospitably accorded by
the sole inmates, an old man and his wife. They
had but one room, and much of one of its sides
was occupied by a carpenter's bench and tools;
but the space was still large, and they had plenty
of bedding, so that it was not difficult to arrange
resting-places for weary people.

After the children were in bed, I looked out for
a while at a low meadow which lay at no great
distance from the house, now covered with a
splendid show of fire-flies. The moon had not yet
risen, and the evening being somewhat cloudy, the
effect of this ever-changing expanse of green light
was most brilliant. Yet all was saddened for the

time by the impression of the scene we had just
quitted. The busy flitting, the appearing and disappearing
of these shining creatures, seemed to
image only the efforts, the successes and the disappointments
of human life; and I was glad at
length to forget in sleep fatigue and heavy
thoughts.