48. CHAPTER XLVIII.
THE HARVEST MOON.
The day was nearly gone now, dying over fir-clad hills; but
yet, before it went, poured a last flood of rich, red light, such as
only the mountains and the valley boast, upon the beautiful
sloping meadow, stretching its green and dewy sea in front of
Apple Orchard.
As the sun went away in royal splendor, bounding over the
rim of evening, like a red-striped tiger—on the eastern horizon a
light rose gradually, as though a great conflagration raged there.
Then the trees were kindled; then the broad, yellow moon—
call it the harvest moon!-soared slowly up, dragging its captive
stars, and mixing its fresh radiance with the waning glories of
the crimson west.
And as the happy party—grouped upon the grassy knoll, like
some party of shepherds and shepherdesses, in the old days
of Arcady—gazed on the beautiful spectacle, the voices of the
negroes coming from their work were heard, driving their slow
teams in, and sending on the air the clear melodious songs, which,
rude and ludicrous as they seem, have yet so marvellous an effect,
borne on the airs of night.
Those evening songs and sounds! Not long ago, one says, I
stood, just at sunset, on the summit of a pretty knoll, and, looking
eastward, saw the harvesters cutting into the tall, brown-headed,
rippling wheat. I heard the merry whistle of the whirling
scythes; I heard their songs—they were so sweet! And
why are these harvest melodies so soft-sounding, and so grateful
to the ear? Simply because they discourse of the long buried
past; and, like some magical spell, arouse from its sleep all the
beauteous and gay splendor of those hours. As the clear, measured
sound floated to my ear, I heard also, again, the vanished
music of happy childhood—that elysian time which cannot last for
any of us. I do not know what the song was—whether some
slow, sad negro melody, or loud-sounding hymn, such as the
forests ring with at camp-meetings; but I know what the murmuring
and dying sound brought to me again, living, splendid,
instinct with a thoughtful but perfect joy. Fairyland never,
with its silver-twisted, trumpet-flower-like bugles, rolled such a
merry-mournful music to the friendly stars! I love to have the
old days back again—back, with their very tints, and atmosphere,
and sounds and odors—now no more the same. Thus I love to
hear the young girl's low, merry song, floating from the window
of a country-house, half-broken by the cicala, the swallow's
twitter, or the rustling leaves;—I love to hear the joyous ripple
of the harpsichord, bringing back, with some old music, times
when that merry music stamped the hours, and took possession of
them—in the heart—forever more! I love a ringing horn, even
the stage-horn—now, alas! no more a sound of real life, only
memory!—the thousand murmurs of a country evening; the far,
clear cry of wild-geese from the clouds; the tinkling bells of cattle;
every sound which brings again a glimpse of the far-glimmering
plains of youth. And that is why, standing on this round
knoll, beneath the merrily-rustling cherry-trees, and listening to the
murmurous song, I heard my boyhood speak to me, and felt again
the old breath on my brow. The sun died away across the old
swaying woods; the rattling hone upon the scythe; the measured
sweep; the mellow music—all were gone away. The day
was done, and the long twilight came—twilight, which mixes the
crimson of the darkling west, the yellow moonlight in the azure
east, and the red glimmering starlight overhead, into one magic
light. And so we went home merrily, with pleasant thoughts
and talk; such pleasant thoughts I wish to all. Thus wrote one
who ever delighted in the rural evenings and their sounds:—and
thus listened the young persons, whose conversation, light and
trivial though it seem, we have not thought it a loss of time to
chronicle, from morn till eve.
They gazed with quiet pleasure upon the lovely landscape, and
listened to the negroes as they sang their old, rude, touching madrigals,
shouting, at times, to the horses of their teams, and not
seldom sending on the air the loud rejoiceful outburst of their
laughter.
The moonlight slept upon the wains piled up with yellow
sheaves—and plainly revealed the little monkey-like black, seated
on the summit of the foremost; and this young gentleman had
managed to procure a banjo, and was playing.
As he played he sang; and, as he sang, kept time—not with the
head alone, and foot, but with his whole body, arms, and legs and
shoulders—all agitated with the ecstacy of mirth, as—singing
“coony up the holler,” and executing it with grand effect moreover—the
merry minstrel went upon his way. Various diminutive
individuals of a similar description, were observed in the
road behind, executing an impromptu “break down,” to the
inspiring melody; and so the great piled-up wagon came on in
the moonlight, creaking in unison with the music, and strewing
on the road its long trail of golden wheat.
The moon soared higher, bidding defiance now to sunset, which
it drove completely from the field; and in the window of Apple
Orchard a light began to twinkle; and Redbud rose. She should
not stay out, she said, as she had been sick; and so they took
their way, as says our friend, “in pleasant talk,” across the
emerald meadow to the cheerful home.
The low of cattle went with them, and all the birds of night
waked up and sang.
The beautiful moon—the very moon of all the harvest-homes
since the earth was made—shone on them as they went; and by
the time they had reached the portico of the old comfortable
mansion, evening had cast such shadows, far and near, that only
the outlines of the forms were seen, as they passed in through
the deep shadow.
They did not see that Verty's hand held little Redbud's; and
that he looked at her with a tenderness which could not be
mistaken. But Redbud saw it, and a flush passed over her
delicate cheek, on which the maiden moon looked down and
smiled.
So the day ended.
