University of Virginia Library

This disquisition upon some of the different phases of that sweet
sin—idleness, has no particular reference to the little story that
follows, except so far as it was suggested by the subduing influences
of the delicious season at which the incidents here related
are supposed to have occurred. It must be a dry and impracticable
mind, indeed, that is not filled to overflowing with the beauty
of our Indian summer; when every winding valley, every
softly swelling upland, in the picturesque “openings,” is clothed
in such colours as no mortal pencil can imitate, blended together
with such magical effect, that it is as if the most magnificent of
all sunsets had fallen suddenly from heaven to earth, and lay,
unchanged, on forest, hill, and river. Not a tree, from the almost
black green of tamarack and hemlock, to the pale willow
and the flaunting scarlet maple, the crimson-brown oak and the
golden beech—not a shrub, however insignificant its name or
homely its form — but contributes to the general splendour.
Frequent showers, soft and silent as the very mist, cover the
leaves with dewy moisture; and upon this glittering veil shines
out the tempered autumn sun, calling forth at once glowing hues
and nutty odours, which had been lost in a drier and less changeful
atmosphere. Low in the bosom of almost every valley lies
either a little lake ready to mirror back the wondrous pageant,
or a bright winding stream, seldom musical here where scarce a
stone of any size is to be found, but always crystal clear, and
watched over by bending willows, or parting to give place to tiny
islands loaded with evergreens. The sharp crack of the rifle or
fowling-piece seems like sacrilege in such scenes; yet the multitude

of wild, shy, glancing creatures, that venture forth to enjoy
the balmy air and regale themselves upon the abundance of nature
at this season, tempts into the woods so many of those to
whom the idea of game is irresistible, that we must take the
sportsman with his fine dogs, his glittering gun and his gay hunting
gear, as part of the picture, if we would have it true to the
life; and we cannot deny that he makes a picturesque adjunct,
though we hate the “barbarous art” that brings him to these
sweet solitudes.

But not alone on the wild wood and the silent lake does the Indian
summer shed its tender light, making beautiful what might
else have seemed rough and common-place. The harvest has
been nearly all gathered, and the ploughing for next year's crop
has made some progress, as the deep rich brown of some fields
and the plough itself slowly moving in others can tell us. See
those unerring furrows, those ridges, sometimes curving a little
round some lingering stump, but always parallel, be the area
ever so extensive. Or look yonder, beyond the line of crimson
and brown shrubs that line the rough fence, at the sower, pacing
the wide field with the measured tread of the soldier, that each
spot may get its due proportion of the golden treasure; and
keeping exact time with foot and hand, his own thoughts furnishing
his only music. No hireling or giddy youth is entrusted with
this nice operation. The foundation for next year's riches is laid
by the master himself; but you may perhaps see the harrow
which follows his footsteps attended only by one of the younglings
of the house, whose little hands wield the slender willow wand
which urges on old Dobbin; and whose shrill piping tones are a
far off imitation of the gruffer shouting of the elder. The adjoining
field is like a fairy camp, with its ranges of tent-like stacks
of corn, and a young maple left standing here and there as if on
purpose to supply the flaring red banners necessary to the illusion.
“Fallows gray” are not wanting, to temper the general gorgeousness,
nor parties of “huskers” to give a human interest to the
picture. Here and there a cluster of hay-stacks of all sizes,
covered with roofs shaped like those of a Chinese pagoda, give
quite an oriental touch; while, close at hand, a long shambling
Yankee teamster, coaxing and scolding his oxen in the most uncouth

of all possible voices, will recall the whereabout, with a
shock, as it were; reminding one that the prevailing human tone
of the region is any thing but poetical.

One very striking feature in our autumn scenery is one that
was undreamed of in the days when people ventured to be poetical
upon rural themes. Cowper sings with homely truth—

But he would listen in vain for the flail at the West, at least during
the autumn. The threshing-machine has superseded all
slower modes of extracting the grain from the ear; and though a
“machine” has a paltry sound, the operation of this mighty instrument
gives rise to scenes of the greatest animation and interest.
Half a dozen horses and all the stout arms of the neighbourhood
are kept busy by its requisitions. One of the more active
youths climbs the tall stack to toss down the sheaves; the
next hand cuts the “binder,” and passes the sheaf to the “feeder,”
who throws it into the monster's mouth. Round goes the
cylinder, at the rate of several hundred revolutions in a minute,
and the sheaf comes from among the iron teeth completely crushed;
the grain, straw, and chaff in one mass, but entirely detached
from each other—the work of a whole day of old-fashioned threshing
being performed in a few minutes. Several persons are busied
in raking away the straw from the machine as rapidly as
possible; and shouts and laughter and darting movements testify
to the excitement of the hour. A day with the machine is considered
one of the most laborious of the whole season; yet it is
a favourite time, for it requires a gathering, which is always the
signal for hilarity in the country.

So tremendous a power does not work without danger; and,
accordingly, the excitement of the occupation is heightened by
the fear of broken arms, dislocated shoulders, torn hands, and the
like—even death itself being no unusual attendant on the threshing-machine.
But no one ever hesitates to use it on this account;

since rail-road speed is as much the foible of the backwoodsman
as of his civilized brother. No inconsiderable portion of the grain
is wasted by this tearing process; and the straw, considered so
important by the thorough farmer, is rendered nearly useless;
but the lack of barns in which to store the grain for the slower
process of threshing, and the desire to have a great job finished
at once, reconciles the farmer to all this. The birds profit by it,
at least.

The “making a business” of marriage, which forms the nucleus
of the following story, is by no means peculiar to the new
country, though it is certainly better suited to a half savage tone
of manners, than to society which pretends to civilization. Strange
to say, marriages contracted without any previous acquaintance
between the parties, are almost confined to a class which, of all
others, is bound to teach the sacredness of the tie. For such to
treat marriage as a mere business contract, without the least
reference to the undivided and exclusive affection which alone
can make it holy and ennobling, is indeed a marvel; and I trust
that so coarse a form of utilitarianism may become less and less
popular among us. If I appear to have done any thing in the
following little sketch calculated to make the practice seem less
revolting, let it be ascribed to the state of society in which the
circumstances are supposed to have occurred. Among isolated
and uneducated people, we may tolerate what should be held unpardonable
where greater advantages and greater pretensions entitle
us to look for a higher degree of refinement.